


Ex Infirmitas, Sinceritas

by charliebrown1234



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Angel and Demon True Forms (Good Omens), Aziraphale's True Form (Good Omens), Crowley's True Form (Good Omens), Fever, First Kiss, Hurt Aziraphale (Good Omens), Hurt/Comfort, Love Confessions, M/M, Memory Loss, Mildly Dubious Consent, Protective Crowley (Good Omens), Sick Aziraphale (Good Omens), consent is cool, temporary memory loss
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-18
Updated: 2020-07-28
Packaged: 2021-03-03 20:00:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 21,393
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24781198
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/charliebrown1234/pseuds/charliebrown1234
Summary: "It’s been seven days since the Apocalypse that wasn’t, and Aziraphale’s had a low grade fever for the past three of them. Angels can’t truly be ‘sick’ in the human sense of the word, but nevertheless he finds himself achy, foggy, and generally under the weather."It's a sick fic! Complete with tender bath scenes, love confessions, and readings of Winnie-the-Pooh.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 136
Kudos: 311





	1. Succumbo (Collapse)

It’s been seven days since the Apocalypse that wasn’t, and Aziraphale’s had a low grade fever for the past three of them. Angels can’t truly be ‘sick’ in the human sense of the word, but nevertheless he finds himself achy, foggy, and generally under the weather. If this were before the Apocalypse, he might have popped up to Heaven and visited one of the healers, but now he’s not sure he’d be allowed past the gate. 

His only other idea is to hole up in the bookshop and deal with this ailment the human way. He’s not entirely certain that rest and fluids will help, but he doesn’t think they’ll make things any worse. His only problem with this solution is Crowley. 

Ever since their tentative hand holding on the bus and their shared night at Crowley’s flat, they’ve been spending more time together. Walks in the park at St. James’, late nights at the bookshop, quiet afternoons spent in each other’s company… Aziraphale isn't entirely certain he could convince Crowley to leave him alone to recover. He’s not sure he would _want_ Crowley to leave him alone to recover. They’ve been becoming more intimate of late, mostly small things, like Aziraphale taking Crowley’s arm on their walks and sitting closer to each other on the sofa in the bookshop. 

If Crowley were to find out how sick Aziraphale was, he’d probably want to stay and take care of him. He’s sure Crowley would be an overbearing mother hen about the entire thing, but Aziraphale knows that they’d both secretly enjoy the opportunity to show affection to each other. Perhaps Crowley would even give him a kiss on the forehead for comfort.

Aziraphale’s pulled out of his contemplation of that delightful possibility by his head swimming alarmingly, and he’s forced to take a seat on a convenient reading chair. He hangs his head, willing it to stop feeling so lightheaded and dizzy, and dimly registers the coolness of the chair against the exposed skin of his wrists. The cool leather helps to ground him, and he tilts his head onto the chair back in search of more relief. 

The touch at his nape reminds him of Crowley. That’s right, he’d been thinking of Crowley! Last night, Crowley had brought Aziraphale a cool cloth to try and make him feel better. Aziraphale knows Crowley suspects he’s ill, but so far he’s managed to dissuade Crowley’s concerns by saying it’s his essence recovering from the Apocalypse. Hopping between multiple bodies all over the planet is rather taxing, after all. Of course, this is only partially the truth. The full situation is rather more complicated. 

Angels, by their nature, aren’t really meant to possess human beings. They fundamentally aren’t built to do so. Their essences are firm and stalwart, full of wheels of rigid flames and fixed wings. Those wheels and flames can be rather hard to fit into a human shape however, which is why their human shaped corporations are designed with extra dimensional pockets. All the same, most angels tend to find corporations cramped, and avoid visiting Earth for that reason. 

However, Aziraphale had always been more flexible than the average angel (whether morally or spiritually can be debated). And he’s seen how demons, who are similarly flexible, can easily contort themselves around a human soul and take control of a human body. But for all his flexibility, Aziraphale wasn’t quite flexible enough to possess a human without losses.

During his attempts to get to Tadfield, Aziraphale had cut and sliced to try and fit into the various humans he was trying to possess, and by the time he'd found Madame Tracy, he was feeling significantly lesser than usual. However, once he had possessed (cohabitated with?) Madame Tracy, he’d had bigger things to worry about. 

Some of those worries included being forcibly recorporated, Gabriel and Beezlebub showing up, and standing against Satan with the Antichrist. 

Fortunately, thanks to Adam Young and some fast thinking from Crowley, everything had turned out alright in the end. It was only when Crowley and Aziraphale settled down on the bench outside Tadfield Aziraphale realized the seriousness of the situation. 

They had just faced down Heaven and Hell and somehow succeeded, and now they would have to figure out a path forward. They’d need cunning, strength, and a variety of other words that Aziraphale was too tired to think about. His unsettled essence churned within him like a restless tide, and the possibility of imminent destruction from Heaven and Hell loomed like a guillotine blade. 

And poor, dear Crowley, was just as tired as he was. Crowley didn't even have the comfort of his beloved car to return to, so they’d taken the bus back to London. Azirphale was sure Crowley felt the loss of his car almost as keenly as Aziraphale felt the loss of his bookshop. The absence of his home of 200 years felt like a pit in his chest, a deep ache that throbbed and pulsed. Or maybe that was the pain from his flaming wheels where they'd been damaged from trying to fit into yet another corporation. The hurts all blended together, emotional and physical pain making his entire body feel like a tender bruise. 

They’d stumbled off the bus together, holding hands like tired children, and then they’d made their way up to Crowley’s flat. Aziraphale had desperately wanted to rest, but he brewed coffee instead, knowing how important the next few hours would be. They needed to make a plan, come up with some idea to let them escape from Heaven and Hell’s wrath, but in the end they’d both just sat on Crowley’s uncomfortable sofa, nursing their coffee and exhaustion. 

Where could they go? Where would they be safe? Certainly not anywhere on Earth, that was certain. But did Aziraphale have the energy to leave Earth at the moment? His essence writhed weakly in his chest, forestalling any thoughts of escaping to outer space. Wards, perhaps? With enough painted around Crowley’s flat, it could buy them a few hours at most. But a few hours to do what? Wait in fear for Gabriel and Beezlebub to break down the doors and kill them both? 

They were going to die. They were going to die, and Crowley would never know how Aziraphale felt. Wouldn’t it be nice to tell him? Just a simple, _I’m awfully fond of you, my dear._ Unbidden, his mouth opened and said, “I’m not sure if we’ll make it through this, so you ought to know I love you.” 

Silence reigned. Had Aziraphale really said I love you? It was certainly true, but he hadn’t meant to say it quite like that. 

Crowley's silence filled the room like cold taffy, threatening to break at any moment. 

“Did you hear me, Crowley? You don’t have to say in return, but I wanted you to know.”

“Aziraphale…” Crowley sounded exhausted, and Aziraphale watched as Crowley clumsily moved closer. “Angel, can I touch you? Please?” 

“Of course.” So kind of him to ask. Crowley was always welcome to touch, especially now, at the end of all things. 

Cool hands gathered his own, grasping them tenderly as Crowley met his eye. 

“I love you so much, Aziraphale. But I…” Crowley heaved a sigh, and his hands trembled. “I’m so tired, angel. I can’t think straight. I know you think we won’t survive this, but we have to. I won’t have it any other way. We are going to survive this, and then we’re going to have enough time to do whatever we like.”

“Alright, my dear. As you say.”

Crowley’s shoulders relaxed, then fell even lower with exhaustion. Oh, Aziraphale’s poor, tired demon. Aziraphale pulled free from Crowley’s grasp and gathered Crowley close, pulling him near so he was resting comfortably against Aziraphale’s side. Positioned like this, Aziraphale was perfectly positioned to hear Crowley’s whispered, “I love you, Aziraphale.” Then Crowley’s breaths fell into a slow, heavy rhythm, and his body went lax.

Poor fellow. Absolutely exhausted. Aziraphale was rather exhausted himself. He put Crowley’s confession to the side to be thought about later and looked at the awkward angle of Crowley’s head. Well, that simply wouldn’t do at all. With an effort, he picked Crowley up and pulled the demon onto his chest, then pivoted so they were both lying on the sofa. That way, Aziraphale bore the brunt of the uncomfortable leather, and Crowley could rest peacefully draped atop Aziraphale’s body. 

Aziraphale wished he could miracle the couch more comfortable, or even better move them both to Crowley’s bed, but his aching body and essence protested the thought. This would have to suffice for now. They would need to wake in a few hours, anyways, and come up with a plan, but for now they could both rest. 

When Aziraphale startled awake a few hours later, the plan to swap corporations was at the forefront of his mind. It had almost felt ineffable how easily the idea slid into place. With some practice mimicking each other’s mannerisms, they’d both set off alone to try and tempt their various sides into taking them. 

Aziraphale can still remember the lurch of fear when Crowley was taken by Heaven, and the sharp pain as he was knocked out and dragged to Hell. In fact, that pain rivals what he’s experiencing now. Aziraphale’s head throbs mercilessly, pulling him out of his memories and into the present as his gut churns with nausea. 

Could his trip to Hell be what’s causing his illness? Open angelic wounds and Hell don’t mix very well, perhaps he’s developed some type of infection. Or perhaps the penalties of lopping off essential parts of himself is finally catching up with him. 

The shop door tingles, and he hears a voice. 

“Hello? Angel?”

“Back here,” he shouts. He knows it’s terribly rude to yell across the bookshop, but he’s feeling too poorly to care.

“Oh, there you are,” Crowley says, rounding the corner. “Feeling any better?”

“Mmmm, morning’s do tend to refresh,” Aziraphale replies, deliberately avoiding the question. He subtly sits up a little straighter in his chair, ignoring how it makes his head swim. “And what are you doing up and about so early? I hadn’t thought you’d turn up until this afternoon.”

“I was in the neighborhood. Doing some petty temptations.” Is there a hint of worry on Crowley’s face? 

“Well, it’s lovely to see you all the same.” Aziraphale smiles warmly, feeling genuinely happy to see Crowley despite how miserable he feels.

“I can’t say the same for you, angel. You’re looking a little peaky.”

“How terribly impolite of you,” Aziraphale replies. And how terribly blunt. He must be looking quite poorly if Crowley is willing to tell him so. 

“Aziraphale?”

Aziraphale blinks, startled. He’s let the pause go too long. His head hurts, and he feels hot and uncomfortable. Crowley is looking at him with worry in his brows. 

“Hmmm?”

“Can I get you anything? You really don’t look well.”

“Ah. I suppose I am still feeling a tad under the weather.” An understatement. Aziraphale’s headache is only growing stronger. 

“Perhaps you could run to the shops for me. Some soup would be lovely.”

“Yeah, of course. Any particular kind?” There’s something more in Crowley’s voice that suggests this question is significant, but he can’t parse it at the moment.

“No, whatever you think is best." 

Crowley is giving him a look, but Aziraphale doesn’t have the energy to decipher it.

“I see. I’ll have to get some Sorbian beer soup then.” 

Aziraphale manages to say, “I trust you implicitly, dear,” and hopes the strain doesn’t show in his voice. Oh, dear Lord, this headache. His vision is starting to ooze at the edges, and Aziraphale can feel himself beginning to list sideways. He doesn’t want to pull a miracle down from Heaven with Crowley right there, but he might not have a choice in a few moments. 

“I’ll be right back, then,” Crowley says, moving towards the door. “Call if you need anything.”

Aziraphale manages to hum an affirmative. 

The front door closes with a jingle, and he reaches weakly for Heaven’s power. He can’t quite grasp it, so he reaches again, confused when it seems out of reach. Has he been cut off from Heaven? Aziraphale’s stomach lurches with fear and he turns himself inward to feel for God’s grace. It’s still there, thank Someone. Heaven, it seems, can’t take God's grace from him. But Heaven’s power? Apparently that can be removed without so much as a by your leave. 

Aziraphale might feel affronted if he wasn’t so busy trying not to pass out. Oh dear. This is not good at all. He shivers weakly, and tries to ignore the fever manifesting as swollen joints and lancing pains in his corporation. 

This is very not good. Dimly, he realizes he needs help. He needs Crowley. His head swims, and sparks flash before his eyes.

He needs to call Crowley. He needs to call Crowley on the phone. The phone is across the bookshop. The sunlight lancing through the windows feels unbearably bright, and he closes his eyes with a wince. He needs to get to the phone. He can’t get to the phone unless he stands up, but he’s having a hard enough time just sitting down. But he needs to get to the phone to call Crowley. 

Aziraphale groans in frustration, and then with a sudden heave pushes himself up from the chair, but he almost falls right back into it again. Black spots swarm his vision as he holds the back of the chair firmly and hangs his head. Oh, Lord grant him strength. No. No, he’s fine. He’s tickety-boo. He just needs to clear his head and walk across the bookshop, and then he can call Crowley.

Shifting his hand from the back of the seat to the bookshelf, he begins shuffling towards the center of the shop, pausing when his vision darkens alarmingly. It’s a slow, awkward process, and he’s fairly certain he knocks over a few books, but he only has one thought in his mind. Crowley. He needs to get Crowley. The phone is only a few feet away now, glinting temptingly on the counter. He can almost feel the cool plastic on his face, and the relief of Crowley’s voice on the other end of the line. 

Aziraphale simply has to make it across the atrium. Three or four strides at most, he tells himself. He lets go of the bookshelf and takes a shuffling step forward, then another. Only a few more now. 

Aziraphale’s vision swims alarmingly, going black and grey except for the carpet directly in front of him. Right leg shuffle. Now left leg shuffle. Right leg - He can’t seem to make his corporation cooperate. He tries to force his leg forward, but it feels like its gone numb, both ethereally and corporeally. He attempts to physically move it forward with his hands, but he over compensates and falls to a knee. 

The sudden change in altitude has him lightheaded, like his head’s about to roll away. He waits a moment to see if he’ll regain his equilibrium, but instead his ears roar and his vision becomes ominously dark. Oh, dear. He needs to get closer to the floor immediately. Aziraphale lowers himself to his hands and knees and lets his head hang, panting shallowly for air. Bless it all, if the world would just stop spinning for a moment! 

His arms and legs feel shaky, little spasms agitating his already spinning head. He just needs to get closer to the ground, and then this will all stop. He drops to the carpet roughly, smothering a groan.

But even completely horizontal, Aziraphale still feels like he’s about to be hurled off the planet’s surface. He takes shallow, panting breaths, trying to breathe through the worst of the lightheadedness, and cold sweat beads on his chest and arms. He almost wants to whimper. He feels overtaxed, wrung out, and everything hurts and aches intolerably. He feels disjointed too, like his ethereal form is trying to separate from his corporation. One of his flaming wheels shifts awkwardly and brushes his corporation’s stomach, and he finds himself swallowing against a wave of nausea.

He feels discombobulated, in two places at once. The pile of the carpet prickles his face as sweat rolls down his forehead, and he closes his eyes to prevent the sweat from burning them. But he can still see somehow, the eyes on his wings opening and weakly manifesting around him. 

Another nauseating, dizzying spin of the bookshop has him closing all of his eyes, trying to get his bearings in the wheeling darkness. It’s fine. He’ll be fine. Just a moment’s rest here on the carpet, then he can get up and call Crowley. Crowley will know what to do. 

A wave of heat and dizziness crashes over him, and he’s swept away into darkness.


	2. Aegroto Lavare (Washing the Sick)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley cools Aziraphale off with a bath.

“-phale? Angel, please, wake up!”

There’s a voice, pulling him out of the dark. A cool touch on his face. Aziraphale tries to push into it, but nothing happens. He’s weak, enervated, nothing left to give. 

Someone is moving him, easing his tense, uncomfortable shoulders into a more comfortable position. His head swims as it’s lifted from the rough carpet and placed on something smooth and slightly warm. He moans in response, unsure if he’s grateful for the softer surface or upset at the change in position. The cool touch returns, one lingering on his forehead and the other resting on his jugular. 

He forces his eyes open, and black trousers and familiar bookshelves swim into clarity. Then his head is moving again, tilting upward, and he swallows down nausea as Crowley’s face comes into view. His hearing is muffled, but he can make out Crowley saying, “What happened? What’s going on?”

Had he managed to call Crowley after all? He doesn’t remember. He feels dizzy and miserable and the floor is hard underneath his back. He looks around, twisting his head uncomfortably and feels something foreign next to his neck. Or maybe his necks? Aziraphale’s fairly certain he has multiple heads, but he’s not supposed to have them out in the bookshop. They might knock over the books. The room is starting to swim again, so he closes his eyes to ignore how the bookshelves weave from side to side. 

“Hey, keep your eyes open! Aziraphale, stay awake.” Crowley is speaking again, tapping at his face with cool fingers. “Angel, _please_.”

Crowley is afraid, he dimly registers. Crowley is afraid, and his voice is close to tears. That won’t do. He pulls his eyes open with what feels like Herculean effort. 

“Hey, there you are, angel. Stay with me. How can I help? What do you need?”

He already has what he needs. Crowley is here. Smart, ingenuitive Crowley. Barring the fact that he can’t see a Heavenly healer, Crowley is the next best thing. Crowley’ll figure something out. 

“Aziraphale, _what’s wrong_?” 

Oh dear, Crowley does sound upset. He needs to tell Crowley what’s wrong, or else Crowley won’t be able to fix it. “Essence,” he manages. Crowley brings his face closer, listening intently. “‘s damaged.”

“You told me that before,” Crowley says, mouth tight with worry. “I don’t know how to fix your essence, you said it was getting better.”

Now, why had he said that? He hadn’t had the energy to heal his essence the past couple of days, and he certainly doesn’t have the energy now. 

As if summoned by the thought, his essence twists, making him gasp. It’s unruly within him, almost like it wants to escape, and Aziraphale is tempted to let it. Surely it can’t feel any worse outside his corporation. His essence gives another sickening lurch, and without a second thought Aziraphale lets himself spill from his corporation.

It hurts immensely. His essence is stuck halfway, half in his corporation and half out. Through the blinding light, Aziraphale can see his nearest wheel is missing several eyes and part of its flame before it winks out of view entirely. He wants to pull himself back into his corporation, but he can’t grab his essence as it writhes and twists around.

Then someone is pushing at his exposed wheels, his wings, and it’s agony. He cries out, not sure if he’s ethereal or corporeal, and tries to twist away from the pain. The wounds on his ethereal form scream in protest, and he chokes out a groan in response. 

Above him, he hears a voice. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. Can you tuck them in any more? It’s not safe to be out of your corporation like this. Just a little farther.” 

The touch is back, pushing at a recalcitrant wheel protruding from his corporation’s chest. Pain lances through him at the touch, and he tries to withdraw his wheel inward. Anything to get away from the incessant, pain bringing hands. 

The voice above sounds distressed, but he can’t make out the words. All he can do is try and wait out the agony of his essence trying to shove itself back into his corporation. He can feel the damage now, sense how the infection radiates out from the original injuries. He’s missing over a quarter of one of his flaming wheels, and the wheel’s agitated rotations are destroying his perception of gravity. Dozens of his eyes are missing or damaged, altering his vision and making him uncertain of where he is in space. His ox head is missing a horn and an ear, completely removed. And his wings to shield himself from God are heavily damaged as well. 

And above all, the heat of infection rages. He shivers weakly in its grasp, and hazily thinks that this is what being ill must feel like. 

Once his essence has been wrangled into his corporation, he can feel himself being gathered, his corporeal limbs tucked in and held securely. Then he’s being lifted, and his tentative grasp on gravity vanishes completely. He opens his eyes, reaching out desperately for something to hold onto. 

The person holding him stumbles as Aziraphale shifts, and Aziraphale feels himself moving faster through the air before being deposited onto a flat surface. It feels cool and soft against his skin, and he sighs with relief. He feels more grounded here, and the texture feels so much better than the carpet. Aziraphale forces his eyes open, determined to find who’s assisted him. 

Oh, it’s Crowley! What a relief. Crowley will know what to do. 

“Aziraphale? Do you have medicine somewhere? Ambrosia or holy oil or something?”

“Ambrosia’s not real…” Aziraphale mumbles, feeling confused. 

“Alright, fine, ambrosia’s not real. What can I do to heal you? There’s got to be something!” Crowley looks scared. 

“Um,” Aziraphale says, thinking very hard. “Can’t go to Heaven. Can’t even reach Heaven.” He tries again, reaching for Heavenly power to soothe his hurts, but finds nothing. There’s just an empty well where there should be limitless power. His essence protests the overreach and retaliates by sending pain through every poorly connected nerve ending in his corporation.

Crowley’s cool hand grasps his own, and he holds on, using it as an anchor against the pain. The darkness here is incredibly tempting. It would be so easy to just fall back into unconsciousness...

Crowley’s hand squeezing his own brings him back to reality, but only just. Aziraphale manages to open his eyes to half mast and focuses intently on what Crowley is saying. 

“Please, angel. I need to do something. Anything.”

Aziraphale’s mouth tastes bad. His tongue feels thick, uncooperative. But Crowley looks so desperate and scared that Aziraphale needs to at least try and help. 

“Keep my corporation safe?” he offers muzzily. “Discorporating’d be bad. Esssence’ll be fine, j’st need to wait. S’already healing. Slow, though. Slowest angel in the garrison.” Crowley is making a pained face at him. “Always get there in the end. Don’t worry. Just need to rest.”

The darkness is threatening his vision, and his essence aches in time with his erratic heartbeat. “Don’t go?” he asks, feeling vulnerable. He desperately doesn’t want to be alone. 

“I’ll be right here, angel.”

Promise assured, he releases his tether to consciousness.

* * *

Aziraphale drifts for a while, semi-awake. The fever is distant here, but it threatens to overwhelm him should he surface. So instead he rests, trying to direct his limited energies to stall the infection threatening to overwhelm him. Vaguely, he’s aware of Crowley carrying him upstairs, but the vertigo can’t touch him here in the dark of semi-consciousness. Crowley’s voice is distant but warm, muttering something about cooling Aziraphale down. 

He thinks that’s probably a good idea. He can feel his corporation straining around him, overheated and raw as it struggles to contain an unbalanced and damaged angelic essence. It can probably use all the help it can get. 

He surfaces briefly when he’s put down. Crowley is working diligently at the buttons on his shirt and trousers, undressing him like an uncooperative rag doll. He wants to stretch out, help Crowley maneuver his dead limbs, but he doesn’t have the energy.

Then they’re moving again, Aziraphale a sack of flour in Crowley’s arms. He quite likes flour. It’s the base for most of his favorite foods. Cakes, crepes - his train of thought is abruptly derailed as his corporation is surrounded by water. It’s freezing cold, and he thrashes, attempting to escape, but a firm hand holds him down. 

“No, stop splash - Aziraphale, calm down, the water’s not that cold!” 

It is that cold. What little he can feel of his corporation is slowly turning to ice, bones freezing into place even as shivers rattle his frame. He thrashes again, weakly, trying to escape the water, but there’s a weight on his chest keeping him pinned to the bottom of the tub. 

He groans weakly, the shivering hurting his already aching head. He desperately wants to pass out again, return to the forgiving darkness, but the cold water is keeping him firmly in the present. 

But eventually, the cold eases to something more comfortable, and he begins to feel more rooted in his corporation. A voice comes into focus, talking about… Shakespeare? It’s too much effort to listen closely. What he can feel is a hand petting through his hair. It feels nice, and he pushes himself into the gentle touch. 

“Aziraphale?”

Yes, he’s Aziraphale.

“Aziraphale, can you look at me?”

Crowley? He blinks sluggishly and tilts his head up, searching for familiar yellow eyes. 

“There you are. Feeling any better?” Crowley asks. 

That’s a complicated question. He’s not sure he’s feeling better, but he’s certainly feeling more present in his corporation. That’s probably a good sign. 

“A tad,” he manages. His tongue still feels clumsy. 

“Well, that’s a good sign,” Crowley says. The fingers running through his hair have stilled, and Aziraphale tilts his head towards them. Crowley takes the hint and continues running his fingers through Aziraphale's hair.

“I’m not really sure how to help you,” Crowley says. “Besides keeping your corporation going, that is. Do you think you can manage some medicine? I want to keep your fever down, but I don’t want to leave you in the bath.” 

“I can manage.” 

Crowley withdraws his hand from Aziraphale’s hair and holds it out. A moment later, two small tablets appear in his palm. Aziraphale drags a sluggish hand from the water and sets it on the rim of the tub, and Crowley carefully dries it before placing the medicine in his palm.

Aziraphale stares at the tablets for a moment, unsure if he’ll be able to dry swallow them down. Then, like a miracle, a glass of water appears in front of him, held by Crowley's pale hand. Aziraphale drags his other arm out of the water to take it firmly, the glass slippery under his wet hand. Aziraphale swallows the medicine neatly, letting the water soothe his throat before handing the glass back and sinking into the water. The water in the tub feels pleasant against his skin now, only slightly cool, and it helps to ground him. To his surprise, he feels slightly better.

Unfortunately, he knows it’s only going to be a brief reprieve. Crowley can try to manage the fever as much as he can, but Aziraphale knows Crowley won’t be able to address the source of his ailment. Namely, his damaged, infected essence. It’s going to take an extensive amount of healing to get him back in fighting shape, and Aziraphale isn’t looking forward to the process.

Aziraphale’s head throbs distractingly, and he tries to reach an arm up to massage his forehead and misses entirely. His proportions of space are still muddled then. Above him, Crowley is talking, saying, “You can take some more tablets later if they don’t work. I just don’t want you to get sick from taking too many. I don’t think I could miracle them gone with your essence…” Crowley pauses. 

“Damaged,” Aziraphale finishes. 

“Right.”

There’s a pause, but Aziraphale’s too tired to fill it. 

“So,” Crowley says, reaching for a casual tone and leaning a forearm on the tub, “You about done with your soak?”

“No, I don’t think I am,” Aziraphale replies, sinking lower into the water. “I’m rather enjoying myself.” He slides deeper until he’s forced to bring his knees above the water line, and a flash of fabric catches his eye. “Why am I still wearing my pants?” Aziraphale asks, feeling confused.

“Ngh,” says Crowley, ears growing pink. He mumbles something Aziraphale doesn’t catch. 

“What was that?”

“I said, you weren’t entirely conscious.” Crowley is flushing now, face almost entirely pink. “And you’re usually so buttoned-up, I just thought you’d prefer….”

Aziraphale feels a smile tugging at his cheeks. What a darling. To be honest, Aziraphale wouldn’t have minded if Crowley had removed his pants. They’d both seen each other nude over the centuries and Aziraphale has nothing to hide. But still, the fact that Crowley had considered his modesty makes something warm bloom in his chest. 

“Don’t look at me like that,” Crowley growls. “It’s not a big deal.”

“Of course not. It certainly wasn’t thoughtful or nice or considerate.” 

“It wasn’t!” Crowley is scowling and blushing in equal measure now, his pink cheeks setting off the lovely yellow of his eyes. 

Aziraphale can’t help how his grin grows larger. Oh, how he loves Crowley. The simple kindness of how he’d carried him upstairs and run him a bath, then undressed him to an appropriate level of modesty has him almost swooning with love. It warms him from the inside, soothing the aches and pains he can’t quite ease and settling his essence. Crowley looks at his face and groans.

“You don’t need to be such a bastard about it.” Crowley says, hiding his eyes behind his arm. 

“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.”

“I’m sure you don’t,” Crowley grumbles in reply, still hiding his face. “You done now?”

“I suppose I could be,” Aziraphale sighs. For all his joking, he’s starting to feel poorly again. The fever he’s been barely holding at bay is pulling at his attention, and his headache is returning with a vengeance. He attempts to push himself out of the water, but his corporation balks, weakness shooting through his arms and sending him splashing down into the tub. 

“Easy, I was only joking. Take all the time you need.” Crowley sounds tense, worried, but his arms are out to offer support all the same. 

“No, no, I wouldn’t want to get pruney. I’d appreciate some help, however.” Wiry arms reach down to support him as he fumbles his way up to standing, and Crowley twitches a hand toward the plug, sending the water swirling down the drain. Aziraphale can feel his energy going with it, reprieve apparently over. He sways heavily, suddenly exhausted, and leans hard into Crowley’s chest. 

“Almost there, angel. Out of the tub and we’ll get you taken care of.” 

“Wait,” he says, putting a hand on Crowley’s chest. “My pants are still wet.” He holds Crowley by the shoulder and inelegantly shimmies the damp cloth down his thighs, sticking all the way. When they finally fall to the bottom of the tub, they make a plop that’s almost comical. He stifles a giggle, feeling half-drunk with fever and exhaustion. 

Perhaps it’s his fever drunkenness that’s making him feel so full of affection. Or maybe it’s because Crowley had left Aziraphale’s pants on for modesty, and is even now carefully toweling Aziraphale dry.

He looks down, intending to catch Crowley’s eye, but Crowley’s too busy drying his calves to notice. To see that familiar form bent in what almost looks like supplication at his feet is overwhelming, or perhaps that’s the dizziness reasserting itself, and he finds himself swaying. He steadies himself with a hand on Crowley’s back, and Crowley looks up, earnest and worried. 

“Alright, angel?” 

There’s nothing but love in Crowley’s eyes. Love and concern and care. Aziraphale can feel it in every gentle sweep of the towel against his skin.

“Crowley, I - ”

Aziraphale loves Crowley, loves him more than anything, but he also feels miserable and can’t wrangle his tongue around the poetry that wants to spill from his lips so he says instead, “I need to lie down, please.” 

“Alright, almost done.” Crowley straightens up and steadies Aziraphale as he steps clumsily out of the tub, then eases him to sit on the edge. “Hold on, lemme just grab you some clothes.” 

Aziraphale hears a snap of fingers, and then he’s being handed his pants back, dry and warm, along with a pair of soft pyjamas. They’re an old fashioned set, a lovely navy blue with white piping on the collar, and they seem very breathable. The pyjamas also noticeably lack any sleeves past the elbow. 

“I didn’t want you to overheat,” Crowley explains, helping him with the shirt. It settles easily over his shoulders, fitting him perfectly. Another frisson of warmth steals through his chest. Crowley knows him so well. Knows that he’d prefer something “vintage”, knows how to care for him. It’s rather overwhelming how much Aziraphale loves him. 

In lieu of telling Crowley this, Aziraphale decides to focus on pulling on his pajama shorts, but as soon as he bends down to pull them up his head swims mercilessly.

He groans and stops halfway, breathing harshly and waiting for the room to stop spinning. Crowley’s hand on his shoulder is all that keeps him from tumbling to the floor. 

“Just let me help, angel. It’s not a big deal -- I used to put Warlock’s pajamas on him every night, and you’re a lot less fussy than he was.”

Crowley helps him sit back up and then kneels on the tiled bathroom floor, pulling up the pants and pyjama bottoms in one go. He lets Aziraphale pull up the last few inches on his own, steadying him as Aziraphale stands and maneuvers the clothing up over his hips. 

“Alright. Bed, then?”

Aziraphale nods gratefully, letting Crowley guide him down the hall and into the bedroom. He sits on the bed with a sigh, marveling at how comfortable and clean the sheets are. He could have sworn the bed was half covered with books but perhaps Crowley had moved them. He decides to puzzle it out later and focuses on laying down in a way that prevents his dizziness from reasserting itself. Bless it all, this illness is terribly annoying. 

He closes his eyes and readies himself to assess the damage to his essence, but a hand on his shoulder interrupts him. He blearily opens his eyes to see Crowley standing next to the bed.

“Uh,” Crowley says. There’s a short pause where Crowley seems to be attempting to figure out what he wants to say. “Do you want to get under the sheets?”

“Oh,” Aziraphale replies. “No. I’m too tired. It’s fine.” He goes to close his eyes again, but Crowley stops him a second time with a hand on his forearm.

“I’m going to try and keep your corporation going, so you just deal with the damage to your essence, okay? Tell me if there’s anything I can do to help.” 

“Mmm,” Aziraphale murmurs in reply. He lets himself sink below the surface of consciousness, holding himself in the in-between, and then opens his eyes from the center of his essence. 

What he sees is an incredible amount of damage. His outermost flaming wheel is missing an enormous chunk, making his entire essence feel unbalanced, and the infection flaring in the wound is unspeakable. Almost as bad is the damage to his ox head, which feels like it’s been pushed up against a grindstone until the horn and ear had been ground away. And then the damage to his wings. He has multiple sets, as is befitting an angel of his status, and they’re all littered with open wounds that seethe with infection. He might have left this too late. There’s simply too much ground to cover, too much damage, and he isn’t sure where to start triaging it all. 

His train of thought is disrupted as he abruptly feels like he’s falling, tumbling thousands of feet in open air as his damaged wheel lurches sickeningly around his core. Then just as suddenly, the falling sensation vanishes.

What the Hell was that? Was that his damaged wheel? Aziraphale feels off balance, almost lopsided as his wheel continues to make ragged loops around his core. He’ll have to fix that first. He’s not sure if he can actually rebuild the flaming essence that makes up his wheel, but he’ll have to come up with something. 

Aziraphale isn’t even sure where to start. Perhaps he can just will it to heal? Concentrate hard enough, and “heal thyself”? He certainly hopes so, or else he’s going to be in a world of trouble. 

With a deep mental breath, Aziraphale prepares himself. He slowly starts to channel his power into his damaged wheel, reluctant to overextend himself, but the infection pushes back at him, reluctant to give up ground. He redoubles his effort, pours more energy into the wound, hoping to burn the infection out with the fire of Her grace, but it resists almost as strongly. He pulls more power from himself, then more, loses himself to the task of pushing the infection out, pushing it back, pouring more and more of himself into the process, discarding higher thinking and lower thinking and then not thinking very much at all...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the lack of Author's Notes last week! 
> 
> I'm planning on updating regularly on Tuesday, and as of right now I have everything written except for the ending. 
> 
> If you are interested in the pjamas's Aziraphale is wearing, I believe the top looks like [this.](https://m.shein.com/ar-en/Men-Contrast-Binding-Shirt-Shorts-PJ-Set-p-942166-cat-1984.html)
> 
> The inspiration from this story came from [Hold Me Fast; Fear Me Not](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19396486) by Zetared. Be warned, it's a much darker work than this one, but I thought the idea that Crowley's essence could feel like it had been "prized free... gnawed on a bit, and then clumsily glued back into" Crowley's corporation was fascinating. So thanks to Zetared for inspiring this fic!
> 
> And as always thanks to [Turcote](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Turcote) for being my lovely beta, editor, and cheerleader, who will be highhandedly be helping me bring these last chapters into the world! 
> 
> See you on Tuesday!
> 
> P.S. If anyone took latin or knows anything about it, please tell me if I've messed the title or the chapter titles up. It's just me and google translate out here!


	3. Cruciamen (Torment)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Aziraphale reads Winnie-the-Pooh and feels much, much worse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay folks, this chapter is a little intense, so buckle your seat belt. I've rated this as Teen, as I think this fic is approximately PG-13 in American film ratings, but Aziraphale does experience some intense pain for a significant period of time. If that isn't what you're looking for, I would advise not reading the rest of the fic. 
> 
> For those continuing, this chapter is almost the peak! We have one more intense "hurt" chapter after this one, and then the comfort begins!

Aziraphale swims up from blackness, feeling ill and empty. Where…? He opens his eyes sluggishly, not sure where he is, and a blurry bedroom comes into view. The walls look familiar, as does the man with red hair in the armchair. The man looks worried, tense lines around his mouth and eyes. Aziraphale opens his mouth, wanting to reassure him, but all that escapes him is a dry croak. 

“You’re back!” the man says, looking incredibly relieved. “Don’t say anything, let me get you something to drink.” 

Aziraphale is gently helped upright, and a cup is brought to his lips, full of sickly sweet liquid. He takes several long drinks, the liquid soothing his throat, then pulls away as nausea threatens. He swallows once, twice, then clears his throat. “What…?”

The man takes his hand, squeezes it gently, saying, “I’m right here. Are you alright? Did you manage to heal yourself?”

_Heal yourself?_ A vague recollection tickles at the back of Aziraphale’s mind (wasn’t he supposed to be fixing something?) and he follows his instinct to close his eyes and look inward. 

Oh dear. Something’s not right here. Aziraphale turns his eyes downward (Upward? Inward?) and grapples with multiple points of view. It’s like he’s looking out from a wing, which is currently curled protectively over a magnesium bright ball covered in eyes. As the wing shifts, he can see the somewhat ragged pair of flaming wheels that seem to be protecting the ball, and then a larger wheel that seems to be poorly healed.

The wing shifts again, getting closer to the magnesium bright ball in the middle. It gets closer, then closer still, and then Aziraphale is -

_pain exhaustion panic no power left maybe the core_

_darkness_

Aziraphale comes back to himself with a start, feeling hollow. He’d tried to heal his wheel, given it everything he’d had, but at what cost? Without his higher consciousness directing activities, he’d scooped at his own core for energy. He’d almost lost his memories, and now he has even less energy to regenerate from. 

He opens his eyes again, feeling hands on his shoulders shaking him. 

“Aziraphale, Aziraphale! Oh thank Somebody, don’t do that to me again, you hear me?”

Aziraphale just blinks slowly, taking in Crowley and the room around them. Oh, Lord, he’d forgotten _Crowley_. A shudder runs down his spine at the thought.

“Are you in pain? I shouldn’t have yelled, I’m sorry, please tell me you’re alright.”

“I’m alright,” Aziraphale manages. 

“No, I - ” Crowley looks flustered, nervous, and agitated. “You don’t have to _say_ you’re alright, you know. How are you really doing?” 

Now, there’s a difficult question. With his wheel healed, Aziraphale feels marginally less miserable with the constant dizziness gone, but his body still aches with fever and his ethereal injuries are like a pained chorus in his ear. And now, thanks to his attempt to heal his wheel, he has no energy to dull the pain, leaving him at the whims of when and how it chooses to manifest. Should he be honest with Crowley? He doesn’t really want to, but he also doesn’t think he has the energy to lie.

His mouth chooses for him, saying, “I’m feeling rather awful.” 

Crowley looks devastated. “I’m so sorry, angel,” Crowley says. “Do you want to try some more paracetamol? It might help.”

“Let’s try it, then,” Aziraphale says.

“You should probably take them with food,” Crowley says. “Do you think you could manage some soup? I have some from earlier…” 

“Soup would be lovely.” 

He swallows the handful of medicine Crowley proffers, then manages about three quarters of a bowl of soup before nausea overwhelms him. 

“I’m all finished, thank you,” he says, handing the bowl back carefully. 

Crowley doesn’t even bother to put the bowl down, simply vanishing it from sight with a flick of his wrist. Then he sits down on the edge of the bed, looking at Aziraphale critically. There are dark circles under Crowley’s eyes, smudges of charcoal beneath the gold of his irises. He looks like he wants to ask how Aziraphale is doing, if the healing worked, but he obviously doesn’t want to push.

Aziraphale saves him the trouble, saying, “You deserve some answers, my dear.” He does his best to organize his thoughts around the pain shivering its way through his body, and continues.

“Right, where to begin? During the Apocalypse-that-wasn’t, I found myself corporation hopping to get to Tadfield. Because I was unfamiliar with the process of possessing people, parts of my angelic self were damaged.”

Aziraphale pauses. He knows he should have told Crowley earlier about the severity of his injuries, but he’d truly thought he could handle it. More importantly, their budding relationship had been new and tentative, and he hadn’t wanted to interrupt their progress with something as small as ethereal damage. 

“I...may have hid the seriousness of my injuries,” he continues, determinedly avoiding Crowley’s eyes. “I was using Heaven’s power as a stopgap until I could find the time to heal. That’s why I seemed so tired. I wasn’t entirely lying about my essence being worn out from the Apocalypse.”

Crowley doesn’t reply, and Aziraphale’s urge to look at Crowley and see how he’s taking the news fights with the equally powerful urge to continue addressing his lap. 

Aziraphale clears his throat. “Well. I had been...borrowing...Heaven’s power for the past week, and then earlier today, after you visited, I found I could no longer reach it. I began to feel rather wretched after that. I did try to call you, you know. I just… ran into some difficulties on the way.”

“Ran into some difficulties?” Crowley sounds incredulous. 

“Ah. Hmm. Yes. I was making my way across the shop and found myself dizzy, so I decided to take a brief rest. And then you turned up. I suppose you remember the rest.”

“That’s not how I remember it,” Crowley says, voice strained. “Your brief rest looked a lot like discorporation. I almost couldn’t wake you.” Crowley’s eyes fill with remembered fear. “Then when I finally got you to open your eyes, you almost ejected from your corporation. I - ”

Crowley pauses, bows his head. “I had to try and push your essence back into you, but you kept screaming, angel. It was - ” Crowley stops again.

Aziraphale doesn’t know what to say, just sits there and tries not to twitch when his essence pinches at him, while Crowley swallows and takes a deep breath. 

“But you’re alright, now, yeah? All healed up?”

Oh, Crowley isn’t going to like his answer.

“Not… quite, I’m afraid.”

“What does ‘not quite’ mean in this scenario?” Crowley asks, voice tighter than a bowstring. 

“Well, it seems I only managed to heal part of the damage last go round, and it seems I’m all out of energy at the moment. I’ll just have to recharge for a bit, and then I can tackle the fever. After that, everything else should heal on its own.” 

“And you’re sure about that?” 

“Reasonably sure. I’ve had to heal on my own before, and while it takes longer than I’d like, I always come out the other end.” He gives Crowley what he hopes is an encouraging smile. “Nothing to worry about.”

“Alright, angel. If you’re sure there’s nothing I can do…” 

“You know, a book might be nice. Would you mind fetching one for me?” 

Aziraphale barely finishes his sentence before Crowley leaps to his feet and starts moving, as if he’d been a giant, coiled spring just waiting for permission to release. 

“Just one? Not five?” Crowley teases.

“Oh, please. If I finish one I’ll simply have you fetch another.”

“Ah, I see how it is. Use me as your errand boy, then. Which one d’you want?”

“Hmm. I quite fancy Winnie-the-Pooh.”

“Winnie-the-Pooh?!”

“Yes. By A.A. Milne. It’s a lovely first edition.” 

Crowley eyes him from the door, obviously waiting for him to change his mind and ask for a 14th century folio instead. But Aziraphale isn’t going to change his mind. Winnie-the-Pooh has become a comfort book for him over the years, as the simplicity of the stories and the obvious affection the narrator has for the characters never fails to warm his heart. When the world outside seems too dark to endure, Aziraphale likes to bring out Winnie-the-Pooh and remind himself that humans can still do good. 

“It should be next to the biography of Herman Melville, fourth shelf on the second bookcase from the right of the door.”

Crowley gives him a sidelong glance, but goes anyway, and Aziraphale waits until he’s out of earshot before hissing through his teeth. Oh, bugger, he hurts! The pain had been building during their conversation, reminding him of its presence with little stabs of pain in his chest and distracting him horribly. He wishes he hadn’t used all his power to heal himself, as he suspects the next few hours are going to be very difficult.

Aziraphale can hear Crowley coming up the stairs now, uneven and hurried as he takes multiple steps at a time. Aziraphale manages to prop himself up a little higher on the pillows as Crowley triumphantly comes through the door, book in hand. He hands it to Aziraphale with a flourish, saying as he does, “One bear of very little brain, coming right up.”

Aziraphale smiles weakly at him and smooths a hand over the cover, the gilt figures of Pooh and Christopher Robin reassuringly bright. He opens it carefully and tries to read, hoping the pain will die down enough to let him focus. 

_Chapter 1_ , says the first page, _In which we are introduced to Winnie-the-Pooh and some bees, and the stories begin._

Well, isn’t that lovely.

_HERE is Edward Bear, coming downstairs now, bump, bump, bump, on the back of his head, behind Christopher Robin._

Aziraphale’s head pounds in sympathy. Perhaps he ought to skip ahead a bit. _Once upon a time, a very long time ago now, about last Friday, Winnie-the-Pooh lived in a forest all by himself under the name of Sanders._ That’s much better, isn’t it? He attempts to continue, but is forced to take a breath as his essence throbs painfully. 

From the corner of his eye, Aziraphale sees Crowley look up from the armchair where he’s playing with his mobile. Aziraphale continues to stare at the page in his lap as if nothing had happened, and after a moment Crowley returns to his mobile. 

Aziraphale is fine. He just needs to bully through until he has enough energy to mask the pain. Now, where was he? 

_“What does 'under the name' mean?” asked Christopher Robin._

_“It means he had the name over the door in gold letters, and lived under it.”_

_“Winnie-the-Pooh wasn't quite sure,” said Christopher Robin._

_“Now I am,” said a growly voice._

_“Then I will go on,” said I._

Another shiver of pain stabs through him, and he breathes carefully through it before he turns the page. He hasn’t finished reading it, but he knows Crowley will become suspicious of how slowly he’s ‘reading’.

_Winnie-the-Pooh sat down at the foot of the tree, put his head between his paws and began to think._

Aziraphale’s essence _twists_ , it feels like he’s being burned from the inside out, and his breath hitches loudly.

“I knew you weren’t reading,” Crowley says, discarding his mobile and leaning towards him. “You don’t have to hide from me, angel. Is there anything I can do?” 

“Uh,” Aziraphale says, unable to think. The pain is like gunfire, shattering his nerves. He tries to speak again, but it just sounds like a gasp of pain. He can wait it out, he _has_ to wait it out - another sparkle of pain, feverish heat following mercilessly. He hitches a gasp that shudders into a groan - and then the pain eases, simmering back to manageable level.

Aziraphale breathes. He tries to center himself. Aftershocks of pain continue to shiver through him, but he manages to clear his throat and look for his book. He spots it on the bedside table, where Crowley has moved it out of reach. 

“May I have my book back, please?” he asks quietly, resigned to Crowley’s answer.

“No, you may not have your book back. Pretending isn’t doing you any good at all.”

What can Aziraphale say to that? _So sorry, dear boy, I was only trying to spare your feelings._

“What if I read to you?” Crowley continues. “That seemed to help before. That way you can rest.”

That does sound rather nice. At the very least, Aziraphale won’t have to hide how his essence is twisting unhappily in his chest. 

“You’ll have to come up onto the bed, then,” Azirapahle says. “The pictures are the most important part.” 

Aziraphale knows it’s a flimsy lie, but Crowley doesn’t call him on it. Instead, Crowley climbs gingerly onto the bed, bringing the book with him, and settles next to Aziraphale against the headboard. Crowley sits stiffly, like he’s wary of hurting him, so Aziraphale takes it upon himself to press close against his side. 

“I left off here,” Aziraphale says, touching the last line.

Crowley clears his throat, then reads, “‘First of all he said to himself: ‘That buzzing-noise means something. You don't get a buzzing-noise like that, just buzzing and buzzing, without its meaning something. If there's a buzzing-noise, somebody's making a buzzing-noise, and the only reason for making a buzzing-noise that I know of is because you're a bee.‘”

Crowley’s side is cool, relieving some of Aziraphale’s feverish heat, and he tries to let himself relax into Crowley’s voice. The even cadence seems designed to soothe, and he realizes there was a reason Crowley played the Nanny in their Warlock deception. He lets his eyes drift shut and lowers his head to Crowley’s shoulder, hoping sleep will take him somewhere the pain can’t reach. 

For fifteen blissful minutes, it seems to work. He centers himself on the soft, soothing sound of Crowley’s voice, and the pain dims to a dull throb in the background. 

Then his essence writhes within him, threatening to eject completely from his corporation. 

“Fuck - ” Aziraphale gasps, fisting at the sheets. “Ffff - ” 

Through the haze of pain, he can feel Crowley steadying him, smoothing a hand over his hunched shoulders. He thrashes, buries his head into Crowley’s shoulder and then slides lower onto Crowley’s stomach, no energy to keep himself upright as his essence boils within him. 

“Fuck!” he shouts, almost losing grasp on his essence. He’s waited too long to heal, and now his essence wants to leave his corporation completely. He twists and twitches on the mattress, muscles tight with misery and he tries to keep his rebelling essence locked inside. It pushes outward again, once, twice, then subsides, still churning resentfully under the surface. 

He tries to catch his breath, body trembling with aftershocks of pain, but his reprieve doesn’t last. Another stab of pain shatters him anew and destroys what’s left of Aziraphale’s shame, sending him scrabbling as close to Crowley as possible. He ends up with his head on Crowley’s thighs and his arm thrown over, essentially turning Crowley into a demon-shaped body pillow. Dimly he realizes his face is rather close to Crowely’s groin, and that he’s probably squeezing him tighter than is comfortable, but he doesn’t have the wherewithal to make himself stop.

Through the pain, he hears Crowley say, “Do you… want me to keep reading?”

Aziraphale nods fervently, eyes tightly shut and desperate for an anchor. The pain isn’t stopping this time, and it’s burning him with an ever increasing heat. 

“'Chapter Two, in which Pooh goes visiting and gets into a tight place.'”

Aziraphale can relate to being in a tight place. He feels like he’s being stabbed, pain electric and hot radiating through him. He wants to cry out, put his hand over the wound, but there’s no possible way he would be able to reach it. He pulls himself closer to Crowley, tries to focus on the fabric under his cheek and the gentle hand on his back. 

But the pain continues to spark, and he is lanced again, this time in his chest. He feels it in his core, his essence lashing out and burning him. He’s not sure how long the pain lasts, and eventually he finds himself reduced to simply holding onto Crowley and shuddering in misery. He feels suspended, trapped in wave after wave of pain. 

When the pain eases, or at least decreases to a less intense level, he tries to enjoy the surcease. He eases his death grip on Crowley’s poor thighs, relaxes into Crowley’s lap, and tunes into Crowley’s steady voice reading about Winnie-the-Pooh. The pain usually doesn’t stay gone for long, but Aziraphale will take any relief given to him. 

The pain goes like this for a while, his essence trying like clockwork to eject itself from his corporation. Intense agony, then quieter discomfort, and then back to blinding pain again. Aziraphale almost grows used to it, until suddenly he feels like he’s being electrocuted from the inside out. Apparently Aziraphale’s essence, having realized it cannot abandon his corporation, has decided to simply destroy his corporeal form. It burns inside him, brighter and hotter than ever before, feeling like a supernova in his chest as it tries to claw its way through nerves and organs to get back to Heaven. He tries to tamp it down, soothe it into halting its destruction, but the pain feels like he’s dying, oh god he’s dying - 

A hand touches his corporation, smooths over his forehead, and he reaches out ethereally and latches on, pouring his fear and pain into the connection.

_Help, please help, please help me -_

The tendril pulls back, but Aziraphale only latches on tighter, a drowning man overwhelming his rescuer. He wants reassurance, calm, a surcease of pain -

_Aziraphale,_ he hears. _It’s alright, angel, I’m here._

“Crowley!” he gasps, holding tighter to the connection.

_Don’t squeeze me so much,_ Crowley whispers in response. Aziraphale pries himself off until only a fragment of himself is holding on, but he still clings to where he’s attached. He cannot bear to be alone with the pain again. 

The pain in his essence sparks up again at the thought, racking him in agony and sending him keening into the empty dark. Every part of him clenches against the pain, and through the neon electric agony he hears the quiet whisper say, _Aziraphale, please, it’s too tight._

He forces himself to let go, eases his grip to a caress even as the pain squeezes his essence tighter. 

_Thank you,_ Crowley says in response. _I’m going to put you to sleep, okay? Just let me take you there._

Distantly, he registers the faintest whiff of demonic energy, followed by a surge of raw power. It’s both familiar and foreign at the same time, reminding him of miraculous escapes at the Bastille and bombed churches. But this time Crowley’s power is concentrated on him, tempting him to follow down into the dark. Aziraphale follows it gratefully, hiding himself far away from the pain, and prays when he wakes the agony will be gone.


	4. Mysticus (Eldritch)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter warnings: There's some slightly dubious consent here, but it's only a few lines. If you want to skip it, stop reading after **Crowley is upright almost instantly, panic spreading across his features as he hastily slaps a hand to Aziraphale’s forehead.** and continue reading at **“Aziraphale?” The emotions flashing over Crowley’s face are too quick for Aziraphale to catalogue, but he manages to catch astonishment and concern, with a heavy dash of panic.**
> 
> There's also a brief mention of memory loss, but like the previous chapter, it's very brief. If you want to skip it, stop reading after **He hunkers down inside himself, trying to pull the shards of himself back together as the pain rages outside.** and continue reading at **Now that he knows it’s Crowley (beloved, lovely, caring Crowley), he lets himself relax into the pressure.**
> 
> Also, I created a very rough version of what I think Aziraphale's trueform looks like and embedded it in the chapter. I would like to apologize profusely for its quality, as I made it on microsoft paint with my fingers and it is incredibly messy!

Aziraphale surfaces glacially. It’s an apt word, really. He feels cold and stiff, especially ( _blessedly_ ) with the inferno of pain no longer present. He reaches gingerly inward to assess his essence, wary of stoking the fire but needing to know how badly he’s been damaged. He’s pleasantly surprised to see that nothing much has changed. His injuries haven’t been exacerbated overly much, and his impromptu rest has allowed him to regain some of his energy. 

That explains the lack of pain, then. His essence must have prioritized dulling the pain over healing his wounds. He feels a weak pinch from his essence at the thought, reminding him that dulled doesn’t mean gone. 

But how long has he been asleep? He vaguely remembers surfacing a few times, pain cutting through him and sending him thrashing - 

And then Crowley would drag him back down into sleep. 

Where was Crowley now? Has Crowley left? Did Aziraphale accidentally injure him?

He opens his eyes hurriedly, blinking furiously to try and clear his foggy vision. But there, Crowley is slumped beside him, half sitting in an armchair and half sprawled atop Aziraphale’s left arm. Soft exhales brush Aziraphale’s wrist, even and slow, and Aziraphale takes a moment to breathe a sigh of relief. Not injured then, just exhausted. 

He takes a moment to look at Crowley, unguarded in sleep. There’s his strong, roman nose, still striking despite being half mashed into the bed. His thin mouth, besieged by worry and currently drooling onto Aziraphale’s bedsheets. And then his troubled brow, a faint pucker marring the smooth surface that Aziraphale wishes he could smooth away. Poor thing. Crowley’s been at his side the entire time. He deserves some rest.

A sharper pinch of pain makes Aziraphale twitch, accidentally jolting Crowley from his perch atop Aziraphale’s hand. Crowley is upright almost instantly, panic spreading across his features as he hastily slaps a hand to Aziraphale’s forehead. 

_Sleep, now, come with me,_ says Crowley’s voice in Aziraphale’s head, trying to pull him back down into the dark. 

Aziraphale tries to shrug the suggestion off, weakly rolling his head to try and dislodge Crowley’s hand. Crowley doesn’t seem phased, keeping his hand firmly on Aziraphale’s forehead with practiced motions. 

Aziraphale gasps as the compulsion to sleep grows even stronger. 

_I know it hurts, angel, shhh, just follow my voice._ Crowley’s eyes are closed in concentration, his mouth pursed in stubborn determination. 

Crowley’s voice is temptation itself, promising a calm, cool, painless dark, and Aziraphale wants to follow him, but he knows he needs to resist. 

With an effort, he moves his arm and takes hold of Crowley’s wrist, saying as he does, “Crowley, stop.” Crowley’s eyes open in surprise, the sclera bright yellow with alarm.

“Aziraphale?” The emotions flashing over Crowley’s face are too quick for Aziraphale to catalogue, but he manages to catch astonishment and concern, with a heavy dash of panic.

“Yes, dear.” 

“I can put you back to sleep, I’m sorry, I - ”

“It’s alright,” Aziraphale interrupts. The pain is rising slowly in the background, but it’s still manageable. He shifts himself upward and tries to hide a grimace, pinpricks sparkling up his arms like they’ve fallen asleep too. 

“It’s not alright, you’re in pain!” Crowley looks almost as ragged as Aziraphale feels, stretched thin with worry and agitation. 

“Crowley, please,” Aziraphale grabs Crowley’s flailing hand, “It’s much more manageable now, thanks to you. Why don’t you sit down?”

Crowley sits jerkily, a marionette with its strings cut.

“You’re sure you’re -”

“Yes, Crowley. Please, relax.”

“I was so worried, angel, you just kept screaming, I -” Crowley shuts his mouth abruptly and ducks his head, mouth pressed into a thin line. 

“I’m alright, really,” Aziraphale says, patting Crowley’s hand.

“Oh, good,” Crowley says, slumping into the chair. “Did anything heal while you were asleep?”

“I don’t think so,” Aziraphale says reluctantly. “I’m afraid things might have gotten worse.”

“Gotten worse?” Crowley says, looking frightened. “How could they have gotten worse?”

“It’s the fever that’s the problem, you see. I think it might be spreading. The longer I wait, the worse it will get.”

“Well, let’s heal you right now then!” Crowley is standing now, leaning closer with his hand outstretched like he’s going to exorcise the fever from Aziraphale’s body. 

“I don’t think that will work,” Aziraphale says, leaning away. “It’s buried rather deeply in my essence, and I don’t want you getting hurt.” 

“It’ll be fine, angel -”

“You don’t know that, Crowley!” Aziraphale is frustrated, pain making his temper short. “One misstep from either of us and my essence would destroy you! I won’t have it.”

“Well, I won’t have you destroyed either!” Crowley shouts.

They stare at each other, breathing harshly. Crowley breaks eye contact first, moving to sit down again in the armchair. 

“I can’t just sit by and do nothing, Aziraphale.”

“Well, I don’t see what you _could_ do. It’s all ethereal.”

“Just last week, I was ethereal,” Crowley says, “I was in Heaven a few days ago, and no one the wiser. What’s to say I couldn’t slip into the plane where your essence is, help out with the healing process?”

“But it’s still too dangerous, Crowley,” Aziraphale protests. “I could kill -” His voice breaks on the word. “I could kill you.”

“I’ll just watch, then,” Crowley says, voice soothing. “Won’t get too close, just keep an eye on you. It’ll make me feel better, too. It gets nerve wracking when you stay unconscious for so long.” He smiles weakly at Aziraphale. “You’d be doing me a favor, really.”

“If you promise not to interfere,” Aziraphale says, looking Crowley in the eye. 

“Cross my heart and hope to - die, I suppose.”

Aziraphale gives him a look. 

“Right, then,” Crowley says. “When do you want to start?”

When _does_ Aziraphale want to start? Ideally, never. Healing this much damage is going to hurt, and he finds himself dreading the pain. 

“Aziraphale?”

“Ah, yes. Um. No time like the present, I suppose.” He attempts a smile, but is fairly certain he fails. 

“That’s the spirit, angel. Do you want to go first, or shall I?” 

“I’ll go first. Just give me a few moments.” Oh, Aziraphale does not want to do this. But Crowley is looking at him expectantly, and the longer he puts it off the worse it will get, so he takes a deep breath and lets himself sink. 

Another deep breath, and Aziraphale is inside his essence, looking out and up.

Wings and flames and rings circle around him, spinning rapidly, but they look sickly and unwell. He watches for a few moments, assessing the damage and trying to come up with a plan of attack, and then shivers as he feels something _other_ enter the plane. He squints his eagle head’s eyes and spots a dark mass of coils and smoke lurking nearby, close enough to observe but out of range of his flaming wheels. It should feel disconcerting to have someone else so near, but instead it feels comforting, like those cheesy American medical programmes where a loved one watches from the operating theatre. 

Part of him wonders what he must look like to Crowley. Does Aziraphale appear like his corporation, his familiar cream and tartan clothes stained red from blood? Or does Crowley see his true self? The flaming core of him at his center, and his protective wings, damaged and infected? Aziraphale supposes it doesn’t matter, really. It isn’t a pleasant sight either way. 

He dithers for another few moments, anticipating the pain. Perhaps he can put it off for another day? His wounds throb in reply. Perhaps not. Oh, buck up, Aziraphale! Crowley is watching, and it wouldn’t do to look cowardly. With a fortifying breath, he pulls his power to him and reaches outward to heal himself. 

The pain is indescribable. His wounds cry out for attention, a cacophony of hurt that comes from every side. He tries to tend to them, to silence the cries and heal the pain, but instead is overwhelmed, choking on the agony. He curls around himself, trying to hide, but the pain still finds him, sneaking daggers into his wings and lancing his heads with arrows. 

Part of him knows that he’s supposed to be healing the pain, but it’s almost more than he can stand to simply ride it out. At every moment, the pain threatens to drown him, send him careening into the dark, but he knows he can’t let it. He wants help, needs aid, doesn’t understand why God has abandoned him. 

He cries out for Her, “Mother, please!” but She doesn’t answer. Any further pleas are drowned out as the infection burrows deeper, crawling closer to his core. He can feel himself weakening, the faith burning at the heart of him faltering. He feels so alone, and everything is _hurting_ \- 

There’s suddenly pressure on his outer wheels, constricting and pushing, and he leans into it, desperate to feel anything besides pain. The pressure feels like love, deep, unending love, with glimmers of affection and care and fear all woven into it, and Aziraphale reaches out and focuses on it, using it as an anchor. 

But then agony burns through him as the infection prods at his core self, and he tries to heal the infection, send it away from him, but he can’t muster enough of his disjointed energy to form a blessing. He needs to sanctify himself, cure the wounds - 

The infection reaches deeper this time, prodding at his faith, his memories, threatening to cut him in twain, _please, help, anyone -_

And then the infection is gone. The pressure is wrapped around his core now, enclosing it entirely and protecting it from the infection’s tendrils. Aziraphale’s grateful for the reprieve, but he feels shattered from the attack. He hunkers down inside himself, trying to pull the shards of himself back together as the pain rages outside. 

As he comes back to himself, the pressure around him takes on new descriptors. The pressure feels smooth and firm, with a faint pattern of scales. Almost snake-like, he thinks to himself, and finds himself feeling unaccountably fond. The feelings surrounding him change too, the deep love now tasting of protection, devotion, and concern. 

When he feels he has the strength, he pushes weakly against it, wanting to reassure the pressure that he’s alright. It responds by curling even tighter, a word reverberating from all sides.

“Aziraphale!” The pressure says, sounding overjoyed.

The sound is familiar, the pressure more so. Why can’t he remember that voice? He looks through the shards of himself with almost frantic desperation, searching for an answer. That voice is important, he _knows_ it. It sounds loving and fond, and he _wants_ to remember, _why can’t he remember?_

“I can’t - ” He’s close to tears, he wants to remember who this voice belongs to more than anything he’s ever known. He opens his eyes, all of his eyes, internal and external and the ones on his wings and he sees a snake with enormous yellow eyes -

“Angel?” 

And then his memories reassemble like a glass shattering in reverse. It’s painful and disorienting and there are pieces flying at him from every direction but he remembers now, he remembers everything -

“Crowley!” 

“Aziraphale!” Crowley shifts, and somehow Aziraphale gets the sense that Crowley is looking at him closely. “Are you alright? Am I hurting you?”

“No.” His memories are returning to him slowly, making his thoughts and tongue clumsy. “You’re not hurting me.” Now that he knows it’s Crowley (beloved, lovely, caring Crowley), he lets himself relax into the pressure. Then he remembers himself and pulls back, shrinking away as much as he can. “Am I hurting you? My essence, Crowley, is it - ”

“It’s fine, angel. Doesn’t hurt a bit. Feels kind of ticklish, almost.”

“Oh, I’m _so_ relieved.” Aziraphale finally relaxes and tries to collect himself. An awful lot has happened in the past few (seconds? minutes?) and he doesn’t feel up to the task of unpacking it. He’ll consider the ramifications of their true selves being able to touch at a later time. 

For now, however, “Crowley, what happened?”

“The infection in your wings was too close, it overwhelmed you. It just kept stabbing at your core, I thought it was going to tear you in half, so I - ” 

The coils around Aziraphale squeeze.

“Well, you see where we’re at now. What do you want to do?”

Now, that is the question. He certainly can’t try to heal _everything_ again. All at once was overwhelming, and he shudders to think how close he came to actually - best not to think about it. But perhaps if he tried to heal things individually? 

“Would it be possible to bring my wings in one at a time? Triage the damage?” Aziraphale sends a mental image along with the words.

“That might work,” Crowley replies, conveying an image of Aziraphale flattening one of his protective wings and slipping it through Crowley’s coils. “But are you up to it?” 

Another excellent question. Aziraphale isn’t sure. His protective wings are the ones closest to his true self, the ones that are supposed to shield him from God’s grace and glory. They’re also presumably heavily infected, as that’s how his core was invaded in the first place. Is he prepared to fight through the encompassing agony again?

“I...think so,” Aziraphale replies. The uncertainty vibrates between them, jarring. It hangs there for an unpleasant moment, reverberating in the space, before he quickly amends his answer to, “Actually, I’m not sure.”

“It’s your call, angel. Whenever you’re ready.” Crowley brings the pressure back, squeezing reassuringly. 

Aziraphale takes a moment to center himself, gathers up his power like the fabric of a petticoat, then says, “Once more unto the breach, my dear.”

“And upon this charge cry ‘God for Harry, England, and Saint George’,” comes the sardonic reply, and the great coils shift open enough for him to pull a wing through.

He plunges forward immediately, pushing through the pain and trying desperately to sanctify the wound. There’s only one on this wing, which is why he’d chosen it first, but it’s deep and seeping, infection lashing out at him in the small space. 

The sanctification process has him shivering in pain, simultaneously trying to twist away and pinning himself in place. The dichotomy is dizzying, and the pain is roaring, but Crowley’s presence is everywhere, surrounding him with love and support, and then the wound is clean. With an enormous extra burst of power, he heals it completely, leaving nothing but unblemished feathers. 

He pulls the wing weakly over himself, shivering from aftershocks, and tries to catch his nonexistent breath. There. That wasn’t so bad. Only his entire essence left to go. 

“Did it work?” Crowley’s voice is soft, as though reluctant to disturb him.

“Yes,” Aziraphale replies. 

“You won’t be able to heal them all like that,” Crowley says. “It takes too much from you.”

Crowley’s right. Sanctifying the wound was hard enough, but healing it completely would be a whole new level of difficulty. Healing angelic wounds requires concentration, focus, a wellspring of energy. Aziraphale has none of these things. 

“What am I supposed to do, then?” Aziraphale wants to sound tetchy, but instead it comes out desperate. 

Crowley shifts around him, squeezing Aziraphale in the process. It almost feels like an embrace, and he lets himself be comforted as Crowley considers Aziraphale’s question. 

“I don’t think you should heal the wounds completely,” he says after a moment.

“But the infection will just come back, and then I’ll be back where I started.” 

“I’ll protect you from it,” Crowley says, tightening his coils in demonstration. “Just get rid of the infection, and I’ll prevent it from getting back in. Once it’s gone, you can work on healing things.” 

It sounds reasonable, it does, but if the infection slips through -

“Aziraphale, do you trust me?”

“With my life,” he answers instantly. 

“Then trust me on this. I won’t let your work go to waste.” Crowley’s voice radiates protection and love, fierce and unrelenting. “Now. Are you ready?”

Aziraphale really isn’t, but he supposes he never will be. “I could be,” he says, readying himself. 

“Just say the word, angel.”

And after a deep breath in his non existent chest, he says, “I’m ready,” and Crowley’s great coils shift a second time.

* * *

The second wing is both easier and more difficult than the first. It’s easier because he has less work to do; he only has to chase the infection from the wounds with a sanctified touch. It’s more difficult because this wing is more heavily damaged, and he’s already tired and pained from his first go round. When he finishes, he rests for longer this time, exhausted. His tired thoughts can only circle around the fact that he still needs to sanctify his Ox head and check over his flaming wheels for damage. 

It seems terribly overwhelming all of a sudden. He pulls his protective wings closer for comfort, mindful of not touching the unhealed wounds, and tries not to give into despair. Even without the infection present, his open wounds smart terribly, and Aziraphale takes a moment to grieve the fact he can’t even rest without pain. 

Crowley’s coils radiate warmth and comfort around him, and Aziraphale burrows himself into them, heedless of hurt. 

“You’re almossst there, angel,” Crowley says, reassuring. “Just a little farther. Why don’t you bring your heads in next, they aren’t too bad off.” 

He could do that. It should only be his ox head that’s damaged, and having his other heads near him would be incredibly helpful. Aziraphale’s too tired to speak, so instead he shows Crowley an image of Aziraphale pulling each head in individually, with Crowley resting his coils where his heads join. It’s not an ideal solution, as his heads aren’t meant to be separated in that way, but if Aziraphale moves quickly, it should be fine. It has to be fine. 

Crowley replies in kind, sending back a wave of acceptance and encouragement. Then, almost as an afterthought, Crowley sends a mental image of Aziraphale in a strong man’s costume. The comically rendered cartoon ‘Aziraphale’ is holding a 1,000 pound barbell, wearing multiple ‘winner’ ribbons, and blushing fetchingly.

“Crowley, really!” Aziraphale tries to sound indignant, but he knows Crowley can sense his amusement. He hears a quiet snicker of laughter from the coils around him, and the cartoon Aziraphale does a one handed handstand while bashfully lifting the 1,000 pound weight. 

“I see your point, you mischievous serpent,” Aziraphale says, rousing himself. 

Crowley’s only reply is a soft, pleased-sounding hiss, and a final image - the cartoon Aziraphale lifting a 1,000 pound barbell with a finger. Crowley’s coils shift, obviously preparing to make a gap for Aziraphale’s eagle head, and Aziraphale feels a swell of encouragement surround him. 

“Whenever you’re ready, angel.”

Aziraphale prepares himself, holding tight to the bright flame of affection Crowley has given him, and says, “I’m ready, my dear.”

The great coils slide apart, leaving a large gap that Aziraphale levers his eagle head through, trying not to scratch his beak on Crowley’s scales. Once inside, he gives the head a perfunctory look over for open wounds, then nods at Crowley to open his coils a second time. His lion head comes with more resistance, reluctant to abandon his ox head outside, but Aziraphale coaxes it in regardless. As he pushes aside his mane with his beak to check for damage, he finds himself settling back into having multiple points of view, his eagle head constantly looking for danger even as his lion head submits to inspection. 

Aziraphale can feel his attributes returning to him as well. His courage feels deeper as his lion head shakes its mane, and he feels more confident in the future with his eagle head back in place. Now he just needs to rally himself for sanctifying his ox head. Hopefully, with his ox’s strength returned to him, he’ll be able to heal the rest of his wounds. 

He dreads trying to bring it into Crowley’s coils however. His ox head holds all his difficult qualities. His strength, stubbornness, and at times his out-right bullheadedness. Persuading it to join his other heads when his ox head is already sick with infection will be a task in itself. His lion head grimaces at the thought. 

It feels strange to be thinking of his different heads as separate entities. When he was in his corporation, they were simply an extension of himself, albeit rarely thought of. Aziraphale felt out of practice at being a multi-dimensional angel after having been a corporeal one for so long.

But enough dithering. His ox head needed to be sanctified, and his brief restored strength wouldn’t last forever. 

“Open again, please,” he calls out to Crowley, and the coils part like the great gates of old. He can see his ox head through the gap, head lowered defensively and twitching in pain. The missing ear and horn look badly infected, dull sparks of light dropping out of the wounds, and Aziraphale shudders at the anticipated pain. 

His first attempts to coax the head inside reflect his reluctance, and his ox head stubbornly refuses to come inside. The infection tries to sneak inside instead, and Crowley is forced to briefly close his coils. It’s only for a moment however, and this time when Crowley opens a gap Aziraphale roars fiercely. His ox head has always been wary to let others protect it, but perhaps with his lion head aggressively roaring and his eagle head on guard for threads, it will feel safe enough to return. Aziraphale chuffs out another grumbling roar, and to his great relief his ox head comes into the fold. 

He immediately sets upon it with his banked power, sanctifying the wounds as best he’s able to even as feverish pain swims through his vision. His ox head shakes furiously, scoring marks on the lion head with its remaining horn as Aziraphale tries to push the infection out and away. Now his vision is swimming, twisting, his ox head reintegrating against his will, and the fever is inside him now, scorching him outward -

Then his vision settles as his ox strength settles into him like a ballast, and he sanctifies the infection completely. He collapses when he’s finished, curling his lion head and eagle head protectively over his still smarting ox head, and lets himself float for several long moments. 

“Halfway there,” Crowley’s voice hisses above him, breaking his reverie. 

Aziraphale hums in reply, making no effort to hide his exhaustion. Crowley seems exhausted too, stretched thin. Aziraphale is fairly certain demons aren’t meant to be able to contain angels in this way, and he also suspects that despite Crowley’s earlier reassurances, Aziraphale’s true form might be hurting him. Or at the very least, taxing him unpleasantly. Space, like time, is relative, but demons are by their nature smaller than angels, and it must take a terrible amount of energy to contain Aziraphale like this. 

Aziraphale just needs to get back to work, take things one at a time. First things first, how can he fit his entire flaming wheel inside of Crowley and sanctify it without becoming overwhelmed. Oh, dear. Aziraphale feels something in him churn with trepidation. Oh, dear oh dear. 

Aziraphale lets the numbness pull him back down again. 

“Aziraphale?” Crowley’s voice, exhausted and worried. 

It pricks at him, Crowley’s worry. Aziraphale needs to continue. For Crowley’s sake, at the very least. He shakes himself, rustles his partially healed wings and pulls his heads tighter together. 

“I’m here,” Aziraphale replies. He lets himself soak in the feeling of Crowley’s love, undimmed by Crowley’s exhaustion. Aziraphale can do this, will do this, for the both of them. And on the other side of this, he and Crowley will have all the time in the world to spend with each other. 

“I’m ready.” Aziraphale rallies his diminishing strength and gestures for Crowley to open his coils.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comfort is coming in chapter five, which is already written and will be posted next Tuesday the 14th.
> 
> Also, if anyone is interested in Aziraphale's animal forms, I think his eagle head is an [Eastern imperial Eagle,](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Eastern_imperial_eagle) his ox head is a [North Devon Ox,](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/North_Devon_cattle) and his lion head is a standard African Lion.


	5. Balneum (Bath)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Crowley helps Aziraphale finish healing and runs him a bath.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh man you guys, this contains my softest writing yet!

Aziraphale is almost finished, and Aziraphale is exhausted. His sanctified ox’s head smarts, and his wings and wheels feel as though they’ve been dipped in antiseptic, but he’s only one wheel away from being able to rest. The infection has concentrated there, evacuating the last of his wounds and fleeing as it senses Aziraphale’s presence coming closer.

But Aziraphale is so tired. Even Crowley, Aziraphale’s bulwark and anchor, feels wrung out and enervated. Crowley’s coils around him are trembling with strain, forced to contain an angel’s entire essence even as Aziraphale tries not to press against his sides.

“Angel, pleassse,” says Crowley. “Almossssst there.” There’s desperation there, but Aziraphale has nothing left to give. He shows Crowley, opening himself up completely. Besides scooping from his core and risking his memories, he has nothing left. _Empty tank,_ Aziraphale thinks.

Crowley’s coils heave with despair, or maybe exhaustion. 

“I’m...so sorry,” Aziraphale whispers.

“Don’t. S’not your fault.” 

“Wasn’t strong enough…” Despair pulls at him, tears Aziraphale from the numbness he’s been relying on. If he was simply stronger, had more will power, he could finish this. Now they were both stuck here until Crowley’s energy ran out and the infection rushed back in, killing them both. 

“No, angel. Ssso strong.” Awe and pride and love wash over him, Crowley’s emotions raw and powerful. 

They drift for a moment, trapped in stasis as they both wait for what’s to come. 

Then -

“Take from me,” Crowley says, urgent. 

“What?” Aziraphale replies, confused. Crowley has nothing left to give.

“My love, Aziraphale, take my love.”

He has Crowley’s love, what does Crowley mean?

“It won’t run out, I ssswear it, and then we can ressst as long as you like. Pleassse, angel,” Crowley is pleading now, as if Aziraphale’s hesitance means reluctance and not confusion. 

“But...What do I do with it?” 

“Heal yourssself, angel! You heal with love and faith, so jussst use mine.”

Oh. Oh, that might work!

“But how do I - ?” 

“Just reach in, I’ll let you,” Crowley says, twisting to reveal a smooth underbelly. “Then we can go home.”

“Will it hurt you?” Aziraphale says.

“Doesn’t matter,” Crowley dismisses, shifting his coils closer. “Now hurry, pleassse,” and Crowley’s voice is even more strained than before. 

With reluctance, Aziraphale reaches out, twists his core self into a lance, and grabs for -

_Love._

Aziraphale is drowning in it. He feels almost gorged with power, and understands briefly why God demands to be worshiped. This, _this_ is ecstasy. He is knocked senseless with the depth of Crowley’s love for him. Aziraphale displays his own love in return, hopes Crowley feels as cherished as Aziraphale is in this moment. The love surrounding him is an incredible feeling, marvelous in its enormity, and he almost forgets he has a job to do. 

But after a few moments of adjusting himself to the wellspring, he readies himself for the task at hand. Aziraphale is still exhausted, yes, but he has hope, and Crowley’s love, and that’s all he’s ever needed. 

He tells Crowley to open his coils completely, and he gets his first glimpse of his final, protective wheel. The flaming surface is covered in infection, damaged eyes and weakened struts crying out in pain, but Aziraphale isn’t worried. His new power fills him as he reaches out, surrounding the wheel with blessings and adorations and adulations, overcoming it and blessing the infection into dust.

And then it’s finished. 

Aziraphale lets Crowley’s love go, feeling wrung-out and exhausted beyond everything he’s ever known. He wants desperately to fall back into his corporation and sleep, but resists weakly, determined to check on Crowley first. 

“Crowley…” Aziraphale breathes, twisting his rings and dragging Crowley’s snake form close. 

“”M fine. S’fine,” Crowley slurs in reply. “Jusss’ need sleep.”

“...alright,” Aziraphale mumbles, exhaustion dragging him back into his corporation. “I love you, Crowley.”

“I love you too, angel,” Crowley says, and then Aziraphale falls asleep.

* * *

Aziraphale becomes aware incrementally. It’s just sensations at first. He feels warm. There’s fabric under his hands. His head is pillowed on something firm. An arm holds him securely, a steady heartbeat under his ear. Aziraphale feels...safe. It’s not a feeling he’s particularly accustomed to, and he takes a moment to bask in the novelty of it, the warmth.

He might’ve fallen back asleep for a while, content to drift sleepily in and out of consciousness. The person holding him shifts a few times, pulls him closer and rests their chin on Aziraphale’s head. Their tired snuffles tickle his ear, and he burrows his head downward to escape. The tip of his nose meets warm skin, and he finds himself breathing in Crowley’s scent. Of course, it’s Crowley holding him. Aziraphale nuzzles closer, relishing the feeling. 

Aziraphale wants to linger here, hide from the outside world. Surely, he’s allowed that, after everything he’s been through. Saving the world, facing down Heaven and Hell, almost being torn apart by his own essence... He deserves a vacation. Aziraphale takes a moment, imagining. 

_Crowley at his side, on a beach. There’s a picnic basket between them, and their fingers brush when they reach for food. They watch the sunset together, then walk slowly back to their cottage. They hold hands in the entryway, exchange a chaste kiss. Crowley lets Aziraphale pull him into their bedroom and tug him down to cuddle close in the sheets. They sleep peacefully, wrapped in each other’s arms._

Aziraphale curls closer to Crowley’s chest, overwhelmed. Oh, he loves Crowley so much. He wants to pepper Crowley’s face with kisses, mark each freckle with a press of his lips. He wants to smooth a hand over Crowley’s forehead and run his fingers through Crowley’s textured hair. Aziraphale lets his love build inside him, warm him through and through, and then lets it ease back into contentment, reluctant to wake Crowley from his well earned rest. 

Aziraphale presses his lips to Crowley’s chest, barely a graze, and relaxes into Crowley’s hold. He has all the time in the world to enjoy this simple affection, and he’ll continue to indulge when he wakes again. His exhaustion drags him back down into sleep, and he goes willingly, a small smile on his lips.

* * *

When next he wakes, Aziraphale feels better. Not completely better, certainly, but the fever is gone and only minor aches and pain remain. The only noticeable difference is Crowley. Namely, that Crowley is no longer holding Aziraphale tenderly in his arms. Aziraphale feels slightly put out by this.

But it’s not a crisis. If Aziraphale knows anything, it’s that Crowley will return. He takes advantage of the full bed space and stretches luxuriously, flexing his arms and legs with relish. There are a few twinges of discomfort, but overall the experience is pleasurable, and he settles back into the blankets with a sigh. They’re still warm where Crowley had been lying, and he nestles himself back into them, pulling the comforter over his head and face. It’s quite cozy like this, with the comforter smelling faintly of Crowley and the warm afternoon sunlight filtering through his eyelids. Sleep calls to him persuasively, and he feels himself tempted back into the warm dark. Perhaps next time he wakes Crowley will be holding him. 

A stifled noise causes him to roll over and open his eyes. Crowley is sitting next to him in the armchair, looking at Aziraphale and covering his mouth with his hands. There’s mirth and affection behind Crowley’s eyes, even though Aziraphale isn’t sure what’s funny about the situation.

“What?” Aziraphale grumbles, closing his eyes again and pulling the comforter closer. 

“It’s nothing, angel. How are you feeling?”

“Much better, thank you.” 

Aziraphale can feel Crowley’s skepticism, which he supposes he deserves. Aziraphale sighs, then takes deeper stock of himself, looking inward and cataloging where he’s feeling tender. His chest aches a bit, still sore from where his flaming ring had burst through it, and there are some minor aches and pains where his essence hasn’t quite settled in, but otherwise he feels remarkably whole. 

“Honestly, Crowley. I do feel better. Although…” He opens his eyes and shifts, wrinkling his nose. “I could do with a bath.”

Crowley huffs an incredulous laugh. “Of course you’d want a bath.”

Now that Aziraphale’s voiced the idea, it’s all he can think about. His clothes are sticking unpleasantly to his chest and thighs, there’s a faint odor coming from his skin. He supposes a cleansing miracle might suffice, but somehow Aziraphale doesn’t think it would do the trick nearly as well. Sometimes, the old fashioned way of doing things is simply better.

Aziraphale pushes aside the covers and makes to stand up, but he finds himself in Crowley’s arms instead, blinking away the darkness at the corners of his vision.

“What are you trying to do? Scare the devil out of me?” Crowley asks, voice muffled through the roaring of Aziraphale’s ears.

“Was going to run a bath…” Aziraphale manages, still feeling lightheaded. 

“I would’ve run you a bath, angel,” says Crowley, sounding both exasperated and fond as he lowers him back onto the bed. 

“But you shouldn’t have to,” Aziraphale says. “You’ve already done so much for me the past few days.”

“I really don’t mind, it’d be my pleasure - ”

“No, no,” Aziraphale waves Crowley off. Crowley needs to rest almost as much as Aziraphale does. “You rest. I can manage the bath.” 

An incredulous look steals across Crowley’s face before it's swiftly hidden away. “No, yeah, course you can. Don’t mind me, I’ll just stay here.” Crowley slumps back into the armchair beside the bed, seemingly engrossed in his phone. 

Aziraphale eyes him warily. Is Crowley actually capitulating? Or is this some sort of trick to get Aziraphale to ask for help? Or perhaps...perhaps Crowley is too tired to put up a fight? Aziraphale can’t recall the events of the past few hours very clearly, but he’s fairly certain that he’d directly siphoned Crowley’s energy in some kind of celestial blood transfusion. 

Well, that gives Aziraphale all the more reason to run his own bath. Aziraphale glances at Crowley again, checking to make sure his eyes are still focused on his mobile screen, then with one hand on the duvet for support, stands up. His legs feel wobbly and uncertain, almost as shaky as a newborn foal, but with minimal lightheadedness he’s upright. Now to make it out of the bedroom, down the hall, and into the bathroom. 

Oh dear, that sounds like a terribly long way to go. He glances at the armchair, currently hiding Crowley from view, and briefly considers asking for help. No, no, he can do this on his own. Crowley needs some time to himself, especially after Aziraphale had monopolized his attention the past few hours.

 _But he offered to help,_ Something in Aziraphale’s mind whispers. Well, yes, Crowley had, but he was just being kind. Besides, Aziraphale doesn’t need assistance. He shuffles forward determinedly, legs protesting and heart starting to pound. Another few steps, and then he’s almost in the doorway, which is practically a third of the way there. Only the entire hallway to go. 

Aziraphale huffs a frustrated sigh, and then curses under his breath as his legs wobble and send him falling into the door frame. “Fiddlesticks!” Aziraphale whispers, wanting very much to say a different word. 

Aziraphale isn’t going to ask for help. He doesn’t _want_ to ask for help. 

_But Crowley’s already offered,_ comes the whisper. Well, yes, he had offered, but what if Aziraphale asks again and Crowley says no? What if Crowley says no like Heaven had for all those years? 

_Don’t be silly,_ he tells himself. Crowley is nothing like Heaven. Crowley _never_ mocks Aziraphale for needing help, and he always helps when Aziraphale asks. Aziraphale just needs to have courage and ask him. _Come on, now, open your mouth!_

“Crowley...” Aziraphale says, trailing off. 

“Yes?” comes Crowley’s reply.

 _Bless it all_ \- “Could you help me?”

The armchair shoves back from the bed with a screech, and within two strides Crowley’s at Aziraphale’s side. 

“Of course. What can I help with?”

“I need assistance to the bathroom, please.”

“Sure thing, angel.” Crowley says, offering Aziraphale a supportive arm. “Although, I’m not sure why you want a bath in the first place. I mean, they have showers now! As much hot water as you like, no sitting in your own filth…” Crowley gives a dramatic shudder. “Can’t imagine why you like them.”

Aziraphale shoots Crowley an irritated look, hopefully conveying how ridiculous he thinks Crowley’s comments are. And if Aziraphale happens to use that same irritated look to cover how his heart is pounding at Crowley’s easy offer of assistance, hopefully Crowley will be none the wiser. 

“I don’t know why you won’t let me run the bath for you, anyway,” Crowley continues. “You just turn the taps on and fill it up. Even I could manage that.”

“It’s much more than just ‘filling it up’,” Aziraphale replies. “There are salts you can add, and the temperature needs to be just right.”

“What are you putting salts in for? You’re not bloody pasta.” 

“They’re epsom salts, they help with relaxation.”

They’ve reached the bathroom now, thank Someone, and Aziraphale extricates himself from Crowley’s grasp to sit on the edge of the tub. He takes a moment to catch his breath and admire the tub he’s sitting on. The tub had been an indulgence when Aziraphale first installed it, and it’s held up remarkably well over the years. Its gold feet gleam in the lamps, and the larger than standard tub body is the perfect size for a full grown man to submerge himself. Best of all, it’s cast iron, so the metal itself radiates warmth. Aziraphale had justified it to Heaven at the time by saying he was stimulating the local economy.

“Thought you wanted a bath?” Crowley says from behind him. Aziraphale gives him a look and then turns the hot water tap on, testing the water gingerly and sighing at the reassuring blast of heat. This is exactly what Aziraphale needs. Aziraphale stoppers the tub, then turns to regard his wide array of bath products. 

It’s been a while since he’s had a proper bath. The eleven years after the Antichrist was born had been a stressful time for everyone, and he’d never felt completely comfortable relaxing for a long soak. What if Warlock had somehow seen him without his Brother Francis disguise? Or what if Gabriel or one of the other angels had dropped in for a progress report? 

Aziraphale shudders at the thought. No, for his first bath in nearly a decade, he’ll go with something simple. He scatters a few handfuls of epsom salt into the water, then adds a healthy dollop of a lavender scented bubble mix. It froths up quickly, creating a gratifying amount of suds for him to sink into. 

The tub’s almost halfway full now, and he swishes a hand through the water to encourage everything to mix. A convenient hand towel appears at his elbow when he’s through, courtesy of an uncharacteristically quiet Crowley. 

“Is everything alright?” Aziraphale asks.

“Yeah, ‘Sfine. Just…last time we were here you weren’t enjoying your bath so much.”

The cold, frigid water, Crowley holding him down. His confusion about his wet pants. And… Had Crowley been petting his hair? Aziraphale isn’t sure about that memory, but he does remember how nice it had felt.

“Well,” Aziraphale trails off, not sure what to say. How does one thank their closest friend (and possibly lover?) for nursing them through an almost fatal illness? “That’s in the past, now,” he settles on. “And I plan to enjoy this bath _very_ much.”

He shuts off the tap and stands, pulling off his clothes in preparation to get in the tub. Crowley busies himself with readying a towel, giving Aziraphale privacy to change, and Aziraphale carefully folds his shirt before setting it down on the vanity counter. The white piping on the navy blue winks at him in the light, and he’s once more struck by a wave of fondness for Crowley. Even in the midst of Aziraphale’s illness and discomfort, Crowley had tried to manifest clothes he thought Aziraphale would be comfortable in. 

Aziraphale steps into the tub, letting out a little groan as he does. It’s just so wonderfully hot, and the surrounding, radiating heat swaddles him like a mother with her firstborn. He sighs throatily, feeling his aches and pains practically vanish. 

“That good, hmm?” Crowley asks.

“Oh, my dear, you simply have no idea.” Aziraphale lets himself slip lower until the water laps at his chin.

“Anything I can get you? Caviar? Crepes? Champagne?” Crowley asks, grinning. 

“Perhaps something lighter? I am convalescing, you know.” 

“Yeah, sure, angel. Tea? I’m sure I could manage some toast too.” 

“That would be lovely, thank you.” 

Crowley stands and moves towards the door. 

“Wait,” Aziraphale says. “Could you pass me a washcloth before you go? I need to wash up.”

Crowley passes him one, a faint dusting of pink on his cheeks, and says, “Mmm. I’ll give you some time to yourself then. If you need me, shout. I’ll be right downstairs.”

“I’ll be perfectly fine,” Aziraphale replies, flapping a hand in Crowley’s direction. “Now, shoo!” 

With a mimicked, “Now, shoo,” Crowley shuts the door behind him.

With Crowley gone, Aziraphale lets himself relax further into the bath. The hot water really does feel wonderful, and he’s determined to enjoy himself while he can. And if his thoughts happen to wander to a particular red headed demon, no one will be the wiser...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the slightly awkward end of the chapter, but this section of the story was a _beast_ and refused to be broken into reasonably sized sections. Hopefully you enjoyed the shift to comfort and are ready for more soft content next week!
> 
> And as always, a shout out to [Turcote](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Turcote) for being my wonderful beta and helping me keep things extra super soft.


	6. Accipiens Auxilium (Receiving Help)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Aziraphale learns to accept help from others and feels SEEN and CARED FOR.

Aziraphale lets himself luxuriate in the hot water for a long while, then reluctantly pulls himself upright to begin washing himself. Crowley’s probably going to be back soon, and Aziraphale _had_ said he was going to wash himself. 

He cleans himself methodically, not rushing or dallying, and thinking deeply with each pass of the washcloth. The soft _rasp_ of cloth on skin is the only sound in the bathroom besides Aziraphale’s breathing, and it becomes almost meditative. Here is where Crowley held him close in sleep. Behind his knees is where Crowley had carried him upstairs. Every part of his body is painted with remembrances of Crowley’s devotion and care during his illness. Part of Aziraphale almost feels bad about washing them all away. 

Crowley returns as Aziraphale is attempting to contort himself to try and reach his own back. 

“Do you want some help with that, angel?” Crowley asks, setting the tea tray down on the bathroom counter. 

“Oh, yes, please, I can’t _quite_ reach - ” Aziraphale stretches again, twisting his elbow up and behind to try and reach his upper back. 

“Give it here, then,” Crowley says, and Aziraphale relinquishes the washcloth with a sigh. 

Crowley dips the cloth in the water, wrings it out, then shifts to kneel beside the tub. “Could you move forward a bit?” Crowley says, voice distractingly close. Aziraphale shifts forward, and then the washcloth touches his upper back. 

“Is this alright?” Crowley asks. Aziraphale nods in response, and Crowley begins to scrub gently. Abruptly, Aziraphale feels close to tears. He holds back a sniff, and then realizes why he’s feeling so overwhelmed. It’s because Crowely is caring for him, and he’s finally fully present to experience it. It’s a terrifying, heady mix of vulnerability, tenderness, and safety, all wrapped up in the steady movements of a washcloth. Crowley loves him, _swish_ , Crowley cares for him, _swish_ , Crowley doesn't think he’s a burden. Aziraphale rubs at his eyes discreetly, disguising the motion as wetting his face. 

“All finished,” Crowley says, breaking the moment. “Was there...anything else you needed help with?” 

The silence sits between them as Aziraphale wrestles himself back under control again. He can deal with these emotions later, in private, but for now he needs to finish this bath. “No, I’ve taken care of everything else. Although…” He thinks about how nice it was to have Crowley’s fingers running through his hair and says, “Would you mind washing my hair?”

“Ngk,” says Crowley. 

“Only if it’s not too much of a bother, I can always - ”

“No, no, of course I’ll do it,” Crowley interjects. “Let me just - ” A large, plastic cup appears in Crowley’s hand. 

Aziraphale looks at it, then gives Crowley an inquisitive look. 

“When I washed Warlock’s hair I would pour the water over his head… Is that alright?”

“Of course, whatever you think is best,” Aziraphale says, feeling his cheeks grow uncomfortably warm. What a stupid, silly idea this had been. 

“Um, I’m going to pour the water now,” Crowley says. “You might want to cover your eyes.”

“Oh,” Aziraphale says, startled. “Certainly.” He covers his face with his hands, which has the added bonus of hiding his reddening cheeks, and the rush of warm water cascades over his head and shoulders. It feels almost like a baptism, of which he’s attended many, and the feeling is only reinforced as the water continues to flow. Aziraphale can almost hear the echo of “In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit,” as the water drips from his soaked hair into the tub. Imagine, an angel being baptized by a demon. 

“You can open your eyes now,” Crowley says, bringing Aziraphale out of his thoughts. “Do you know which shampoo you want me to use?”

Aziraphale removes his hands and blinks a few times, then reaches out and hands Crowley a shampoo bottle at random. “This one will be fine, thank you.”

“Do you want to lean against the back of the tub? Or the side, it doesn’t bother me any. Warlock was never a huge fan of bath time, so I’m pretty good at washing hair at any angle,” Crowley rambles nervously. 

Aziraphale chooses to lay back, making sure to keep his head out of the water for easy access. It’s charming how flustered Crowley was becoming, although Aziraphale can’t judge. His own nerves have his stomach fluttering. 

“You might want to close your eyes again,” Crowley says, squeezing the bottle. “I’ll be very careful, but just in case.”

Aziraphale closes his eyes, and the darkness somehow makes everything feel even more intimate. 

“I’m going to touch your hair now,” Crowley says quietly, and then cool fingers are in his hair. 

Oh, but this was worth the nerves. Crowley’s hands are strong and thorough, gently scratching Aziraphale’s scalp as he works Aziraphale’s hair into a lather. Crowley moves in small circles, offering a scalp massage as he works from the top of Aziraphale’s head to behind his ears. Aziraphale wishes it could last forever, and wonders if he could gather up the courage to ask Crowley to touch his hair without the pretense of washing it. 

Then there’s a careful hand over his eyes and a stream of water over his head as Crowley carefully washes the shampoo free. Aziraphale realizes abruptly that Crowley’s hands are protecting Aziraphale’s eyes from the mild burn of soap just like he’d protected Aziraphale from the pain of his own essence. Could Aziraphale ask for a better friend and companion? Crowley has been with Aziraphale this entire time, considerate and caring, and Aziraphale has been a poor friend in return. First Armageddon, then lying about his condition, and now asking Crowley to wash his hair after Crowley had helped to heal his essence. What has Aziraphale done to deserve such a loyal companion?

If a single tear rolls down Aziraphale’s face, Crowley doesn’t mention it. Instead, Crowley performs a final rinse and asks, “Do you use a conditioner?”

“Not normally,” Aziraphale replies, voice slightly hoarse. 

“Would you like me to put some in anyway?” 

What a silly question. Of course Aziraphale wants Crowley to put in some conditioner. Anything to keep those careful hands on his head a little while longer.

“Whatever you think is best, my dear.” Aziraphale feels the faint brush of a demonic miracle, then hears Crowley uncap a bottle. 

“I use this one at my flat,” Crowley says. “It doesn’t leave a lot of residue, and I like how it smells.” 

There’s a faint whiff of eucalyptus in the air as Crowley squeezes the bottle. With each careful pass of Crowley’s hands through Aziraphale’s hair the smell grows stronger, and Aziraphale sighs a bit at the thought of smelling like Crowley’s conditioner. 

“Alright, last rinse,” Crowley says. “Cover your eyes again?” 

Aziraphale does so, once again grateful for the opportunity to hide his face. The water sluices through his hair easily, and Crowley’s cool hands ruffle his curls to dislodge any errant suds. It seems like only a moment at most before Crowley is withdrawing his hands and declaring, “All clean.”

Aziraphale opens his eyes and runs his hands through his hair, feeling the ghost of Crowley’s touch. “Thank you, Crowley, I truly appreciate it.”

“Don’t mention it,” Crowley says, turning away to dry his hands. Crowley isn’t quite fast enough to hide his own blush however. 

“Do you want to keep sitting in the tub?” Crowley asks, still intently drying his hands.

“No, I think I’m about finished,” Aziraphale replies. 

“Right,” Crowley says. There’s a slightly awkward silence before they both start speaking. 

“Could you hand me a tow-”

“Let me get you a -”

Another pause, this one slightly bashful, before Crowley places a bath towel within Aziraphale’s reach. 

“Do you…need help with anything?” Crowley asks. 

Does Aziraphale need help with anything? He takes stock of his body, and various aches and pains make themselves known. His body is tired, as is his essence, but he doesn’t feel like he’s about to pass out from exhaustion like before. Instead, it’s a sleepy warmth, promising pleasant dreams and warm rest.

“I wouldn’t mind assistance back to my bedroom,” Aziraphale settles on. “I think I can manage everything else.” 

“Right,” Crowley says again. “I’ll just wait outside. No rush.”

Crowley shuffles out of the room, closing the door gently behind him. Aziraphale performs the rest of his ablutions quickly, not seeing much of a point in dilly-dallying, and then levers himself up to sit on the edge of the tub. His legs and arms still feel weak, and he doesn’t want to risk a fall and worry Crowley more than he already has. 

The towel Crowley has left for him is warm and soft, and he rubs it briskly down his legs and arms before toweling off his hair. The scent of Crowley’s borrowed conditioner in his hair is stronger as Aziraphale ruffles it dry, and Aziraphale takes a moment to breathe in the familiar scent mixed with his own. He smells like Crowley. Or more accurately, Aziraphale smells like Crowley and him mixed together. 

He jerks himself away from _that_ thought with a blush and puts the towel on the edge of the tub. He needs to get dressed. He casts his eyes around the room, looking for his clothes, and sees that both his normal suit and Crowley’s miracled pajamas have been laundered. They sit side by side on the vanity, the dark navy blue contrasting nicely with the tan of his coat. Crowley is letting Aziraphale choose what he wants, the same choice he’s been giving Aziraphale for the past 6,000 years. Aziraphale grabs the pajamas decisively.

Once dressed (and after having nibbled at the tea and toast Crowley had brought him), Aziraphale raises his voice and says, “You can come back in, Crowley.” 

Crowley opens the door immediately, almost as if he’d been lurking outside. 

“Ready?” Crowley asks. 

“Yes, I think so. If I could just borrow your arm…”

“Of course,” Crowley replies, smoothly offering his elbow. 

“Thank you,” Aziraphale says. He slips his hand into the crook of Crowley’s arm, then pulls himself upward with a significant amount of effort. “Tally-ho, then.”

“Tally-ho?” Crowley scoffs.

Aziraphale takes a step forward and feels his legs wobble alarmingly. It appears as though the hot bath might have relaxed his muscles too much. Aziraphale takes another careful step forward and his legs almost give way completely. 

“Oh dear,” Aziraphale says, clinging to Crowley’s arm. 

“I could carry you?” offers Crowley hesitantly. 

“No, no, just give me a moment.” Aziraphale knows Crowley is more than capable of carrying him back to the bedroom, but Aziraphale would like to maintain a smidgen of dignity. After a moment to get his legs underneath him, Aziraphale manages a few more steps toward the door with Crowley’s help and rests against the wall. He can see the hallway looming through the door, and he isn’t excited about the prospect of walking down it. 

“Hold on a moment, I have an idea,” Crowley says abruptly. “Can you stand on your own for a moment?”

“Of course I can, but -” Aziraphale says.

“Great,” Crowley says, moving over to the door and shutting it. With a deep breath, Crowley snaps his fingers, and then leans heavily on the door handle, his face now drastically pale.

“Crowley!” Aziraphale says, “What did you do?”

Crowley opens the door clumsily and reveals Aziraphale’s bedroom, saying, “I moved your bedroom. Always thought it was a bit dumb your bathroom was down the hall. Now you have an en suite.”

At Aziraphale’s face, Crowley blanches even more, and says, “If you don’t like it, I can put it back.”

“No, no, leave it, please!” Aziraphale replies. “I’m more worried about you! Are you all right? You went awfully pale.”

“Nah, I’m fine,” Crowley says, still noticeably leaning on the door frame. 

“I see,” Aziraphale says. Far be it from Aziraphale to call Crowley on his bluff. He’d simply have to convince Crowley to rest. 

“Well, it certainly shortens our walk. Thank you, my dear. It was very thoughtful.”

“Don’t mention it,” Crowley says.

“Well,” says Aziraphale, “Shall we continue?”

“Oh!” Crowley exclaims, “Right, yes.” Crowley offers his arm again, and they make their way into the bedroom proper. 

Reaching the bed feels like an extraordinary accomplishment, and Aziraphale sits with a relieved sigh. His head had started to swim, and his legs feel like jelly. Crowley seems a little wobbly as well, and he sits down beside Aziraphale on the bedspread.

“Mission accomplished,” Crowley says, sounding a tad out of breath.

“Quite,” Aziraphale replies, trying to calm his own breathing.

Crowley wrestles his own breathing under control, then starts to stand up, saying, “I’ll leave you to rest, then.” 

“Wait!” Aziraphale grabs Crowley’s arm. 

Crowley looks at him patiently. 

“I... would rather not be alone.” Aziraphale finishes, feeling slightly silly. 

“‘Course, angel. Lemme get out of your way.” Crowley rises again, this time moving more towards the armchair, but Aziraphale holds him back a second time. 

“You can stay here,” Aziraphale says. Then, realizing how commanding that had been, quickly adds on, “Or you can sit in the chair if that’s what you-”

Crowley gives him a grin that is equal parts surprised and approving of Aziraphale’s bossiness. “Well, since you asked so nicely,” Crowley says, “I suppose I could hang around.” 

When they’re both settled comfortably on the bed, Aziraphale against the headboard, and Crowley sprawled on the opposite side, Aziraphale asks, “How is the Bentley?”

Crowley, intuitive as he is, takes this cue to ramble. A laundry list of complaints is trotted out, namely about the poor quality of London’s roadways and how the unprecedented amount of rented electric scooters threaten to nick the Bentley’s paint job. Aziraphale makes sure to “hmm” and tut in the appropriate places, but he only has half an ear for Crowley’s rant.

The warm, sleepy exhaustion from earlier is making a fast return, and Aziraphale finds himself slouching, moving lower and lower until he’s almost horizontal. His eyes keep closing too, sliding shut without his permission and forcing him to pull them open again. 

“Aziraphale.”

“Mmm?” Aziraphale tries to sit up from where he’s slumped against the headboard.

“You can go to sleep, I won’t be offended.” 

“Oh, I couldn’t possibly, especially after I asked you to stay - ”

“Angel,” Crowley fixes him with a look. “Go to sleep. Or at the very least lie down.”

Aziraphale stubbornly remains upright.

“Please, angel,” Crowley says, softer now. “You need the rest.” 

“If you insist,” Aziraphale says with a put upon sign.

Aziraphale shifts himself down the bed and under the covers, then turns to look at Crowley. It’s a very uncomfortable angle to keep his head at, and it won’t do at all. 

“Will you please come over here?” Aziraphale asks. 

“Over…next to you?” Crowley says, sounding hesitant. 

“Yes,” Aziraphale replies. “And under the covers. Wouldn’t want you to catch a cold.” Aziraphale watches as Crowley moves himself parallel to Aziraphale and awkwardly wiggles himself underneath the covers. After a few more squirms, Crowley turns to face Aziraphale.

“Is this what you wanted?” Crowley asks.

To be honest, what Aziraphale really wants is for Crowley to hold him again. But is Aziraphale brave enough to ask for it? 

“Would you…” _Buck up, Aziraphale! He hasn’t refused you yet._

“Would I…?” Crowley’s eyes seem to glow as they peer at him from across the bed. 

Aziraphale gathers his courage and clears this throat. “Before. I was sleeping, and you were… You were holding me…” 

“You want me to do that again?” No judgement, just a pleasant surprise in Crowley’s voice.

“Yes, please.”

Crowley moves closer, coming within a hands breadth of Aziraphale. “So, your head was on my chest?” Crowley asks, haltingly. 

“And your arms were around me,” Aziraphale whispers, barely able to believe his own daring. 

Crowley reaches out an arm, wrapping it around Aziraphale’s back and pulling him closer. Aziraphale wriggles closer still, then puts his own arm around Crowley and winches them tighter until they’re pressed chest to chest. He even goes so far to push a thigh between Crowley’s own, wrapping himself octopus-like around Crowley's frame. And then, Aziraphale relaxes. His head is pillowed on Crowley’s shoulder, his nose is brushing Crowley’s chest, and Crowley’s arms are tight around him. Aziraphale doesn’t think he’s ever felt more protected and safe. 

“Comfortable?” Crowley asks in murmur.

“Yes,” Aziraphale sighs, feeling almost deliriously happy. “Thank you.”

“‘S my pleasure, angel. Sleep well.”

And after a few minutes to simply luxuriate in Crowley’s heartbeat, Aziraphale does.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're almost at the end! Thank you guys so much for coming on this journey with me, and I'll see you next week with the final chapter.


	7. Novis Initiis (New Beginnings)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale and Crowley take some decompression time and try new things.

Aziraphale wakes up slowly, drowsy and warm, and Crowley’s arms are around him in the soft bubble of blankets. Aziraphale can feel faint pangs of hunger as his corporation demands food (in lieu of being maintained by his essence), but overall he doesn't think he’s ever felt more at peace. 

But it’s short lived; Aziraphale must have moved in some way as he woke up, because now Crowley’s nose is wrinkling and his eyes are fluttering open. 

“What time is it?” Crowley grumbles. He squints blearily at his watch, obviously not yet fully awake. After a moment of confused contemplation, Crowley says, “Blimey, that late?”

Aziraphale pushes himself up to peer at Crowley’s watch, and is astonished to see that they’ve slept for almost eighteen hours. 

“Must have needed the sleep,” Crowley murmurs, laying back down and scrubbing vigorously at his face with both hands. “How’re you feeling, angel? 

“Much better, thank you.”

“Do you need anything? A drink, something to eat?”

Now that Crowley mentions it, he _is_ quite hungry. Although he’d be willing to forgo food if Crowley would hold him again. 

“I could eat.”

“Tea and toast?” Crowley asks. 

“And maybe crepes?” Aziraphale says hopefully. If he can’t have Crowley’s arms around him, crepes might be the next best thing.

“What about keeping it light, I’m still convalescing?” 

“That was hours ago!”

“Peckish, are you?” Crowley says, a hint of fondness in his voice. “Well, we both know how you get when you’re _peckish_.”

“Oh, please, Crowley.” 

“All right, angel, I’m going.” Crowley rolls himself out of the bed and heads to the door. “Don’t fall asleep, your crepes won’t keep if you do.”

Aziraphale is willing to bet that his crepes _would_ keep. In fact, he’s sure if he slept the entire day away they’d still be the perfect temperature when he woke up. Not that he’s inclined to sleep; if Aziraphale’s being honest, he’d never enjoyed sleeping. It has always felt uncomfortably vulnerable, as if someone could discorporate him at any time. Then he’d be right back up in Heaven, being scolded for dereliction of duty. It was bad enough Aziraphale consumed gross matter, they’d say, but sleeping on the job? Aziraphale shuddered to think of the scolding he’d receive . It would probably start with, “Evil never sleeps, Aziraphale!” and end with some sort of punishment to remind him how proper angels behaved. 

But waking up with Crowley had been nice. Aziraphale had felt safe and loved, and the overwhelming intimacy of watching Crowley wake up beside him was something he wanted to repeat ad infinitum. With Heaven’s surprise visits out of the picture and the excessive amount of wards he’d put on the bookshop, perhaps he could grow used to sleeping. Especially if he continued to wake up next to Crowley. 

The shop bell tinkles downstairs, jerking Aziraphale from his train of thought. That must be Crowley, leaving for Aziraphale’s crepes. Depending on how extreme Crowley is feeling, he could return in anywhere from five to fifteen minutes. Five if Crowley miraculously acquires someone else’s crepe order, and fifteen if Crowley drives to Aziraphale’s favorite crepe restaurant in West London. 

Part of Aziraphale wants to go down to the shop to wait for him, but he isn’t sure if his legs will be able to carry him down the stairs. He certainly doesn’t want to collapse halfway there. He doesn’t remember Crowley’s expression when he’d found Aziraphale unconscious in the bookshop, but he’s certain he doesn’t want to recreate it. He’s already put Crowley through enough stress and anxiety. 

Aziraphale pulls himself up to lean against the headboard and resigns himself to waiting patiently until Crowley returns. He supposes he _could_ reread some of the books he’d stored in his bedroom, but he’s not sure they’re worth the effort of getting out of bed. 

A glint in his peripheral vision has him turning, the foil letters of _Winnie the Pooh_ catching his eye from the side table. Well, that will do quite nicely. He snakes a hand out from the blankets and pulls it close, cracking the spine lovingly. He’s not sure where Crowley left off, but starting from the beginning again won’t hurt. 

_HERE is Edward Bear, coming downstairs now, bump, bump, bump, on the back of his head, behind Christopher Robin._

Oh, he remembers this part. He’d had to skip ahead here as his own head throbbed. He skips ahead again, not wanting to linger on the unpleasant memory. 

But more memories keep popping up regardless of how quickly he skips through the pages. Crowley’s gentle hands on the back of his neck as Aziraphale choked back a groan, a soothing voice reading while Aziraphale’s essence tried to wrench itself his chest… Eventually Aziraphale is left staring down at the title page of chapter four. He can’t remember Crowley reading this story. Perhaps this was when his essence had tried to tear him apart. 

Aziraphale shivers. He’d honestly thought he was going to die, the agony was so great. But then Crowley had rescued him, just as he’d rescued Aziraphale hundreds of times before. Crowley could have left at any point, could have written Aziraphale off as too much work and left him to heal alone. But Crowley had stayed, even helping Aziraphale heal his damaged essence at great cost to himself. 

_Oh._ Crowley is always going to be there. In sickness and in health, in trials and troubles, Crowley is never going to leave him. Crowley will always be there to support him, care for him, love him -

“Got your crepes, angel!” Crowley says, sweeping through the door. Aziraphale jumps and ducks his head, smearing a hand across his face to wipe away any lingering dampness that might have accumulated there. 

“Even brought one of your fancy breakfast trays up,” Crowley continues. 

Crowley sets the tray on the bed, then pulls off the lid. Aziraphale’s crepe is center stage, having been removed from its take away container and carefully plated. There’s a careful drizzle of sauce across the top too, and the wrapped silverware at its side looks freshly polished. There’s even a small bowl of fruit and a pot of tea, with Aziraphale’s favorite mug perched on the corner.

“Oh, my dear…” Aziraphale tries to keep tears from welling and is only partially successful. “This looks absolutely scrumptious.”

“S’just crepes,” Crowley says, looking uncomfortable.

It’s not just crepes, it’s everything Crowley’s done over the past few days. The caretaking, the book reading, the bath, and now breakfast served in bed. Aziraphale wants to pull him close and kiss him, press his lips to Crowley’s and try to convince him of how much Aziraphale loves him.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale says, his voice wet. 

Crowley comes close, looking worried. “What is it? Are you feeling alright?”

“I’m fine, it’s just…” 

Crowley’s face, worried, solicitous, full of care and affection.

“I would very much like to kiss you,” Aziraphale finishes, heart overflowing with love.

“Ngk,” Crowley says, turning red. “I’d like that - ”

But Aziraphale is already kissing him, kissing him, kissing him. When he pulls back, Crowley looks pleasantly stunned, hair disheveled and eyes wide. Crowley’s love-struck expression sends another paroxysm of affection shooting through Aziraphale’s overfull heart, and he finds himself pulling Crowley into a hug.

“I love you so much,” Aziraphale says, arms around Crowley and overwhelmed by the emotions coursing through him. “I can’t even begin to enumerate the ways, I simply can’t.”

“I love you too, angel,” Crowley squeaks in reply. 

“Oh!” Aziraphale gasps, instantly releasing him. “I’m so sorry, my dear, I didn’t mean to crush you.”

“Uh,” says Crowley, a tad breathy. “It’s fine. I’m fine.”

Crowley looks as dazed as Aziraphale feels, so Aziraphale pulls Crowley into a hug again, gentler this time. They both collect themselves, breathing deeply, For a few moments, it’s quiet, their embrace reflective and Aziraphale takes a moment to appreciate how comforting it is to have Crowley in his arms. Crowley sighs, as if having heard Aziraphale’s thought, and lets Aziraphale take more of his weight. 

“I was really worried for a while there,” Crowley says, almost too quiet for Aziraphale to hear. 

“I was worried myself,” Aziraphale replies. “I seem to recall feeling rather poorly.”

Crowley snorts into Aziraphale’s neck and holds tighter for a moment, like he’s reassuring himself that Aziraphale is still there.

“That’s an understatement, angel.”

“Hmm. It might be,” Aziraphale says. “But what isn’t an understatement is your depth of care, Crowley.”

Crowley tenses, but Aziraphale doesn’t stop.

“You stayed with me while I was ill, and took care of me when I was most vulnerable. You’ve shown me a depth of devotion I’ve never experienced before, and I -” Aziraphale’s voice breaks messily, but he soldiers on, “I hope to be able to return that devotion to you in kind.”

Crowley is silent for a moment, then says with a rough voice, “I would do it all again in a heartbeat, angel. You deserve to be cared for.”

Aziraphale almost bursts into tears, but manages to contain himself at the very last second. 

“Oh,” he sniffs wetly. “That’s very kind of you to say.”

Crowley huffs, but doesn’t protest. He lets Aziraphale hug him until Aziraphale’s collected himself, then gently pulls away. 

“Not that I’m not enjoying the hugging,” Crowley says, quick to reassure, “But I think your crepes are getting cold.”

“Oh!” Aziraphale says, surprised. “I’d completely forgotten.” 

He pulls away reluctantly, the smell of savory crepe wafting beneath his nose, and Aziraphale realizes he is voraciously hungry. He carefully takes up his knife and fork to cut off a bite, and groans when he tastes the fresh ingredients. 

“These are delicious, Crowley! Wherever did you buy them?” Aziraphale asks distractedly, already cutting off another slice of crepe. 

“Local French place,” Crowley says evasively. “I’ve got a dessert crepe too for when you’re finished.”

 _My goodness, and a dessert crepe?_ Crowley truly has outdone himself. Aziraphale is tempted to tell him just that, but doesn’t want to overwhelm Crowley with compliments. He gives Crowley a grateful smile instead, and Crowley flushes and smiles in response.

Aziraphale had kissed those smiling lips, he realizes. They’d been gentle and responsive, and overwhelmingly soft underneath his own. Perhaps once Aziraphale finishes these crepes, they can continue where they’d left off. 

“Do you have any plans for the day?” Aziraphale asks, nonchalantly. 

“Nah, was just going to indulge in some sloth. Maybe look at some real estate listings.”

“Real estate listings? Whatever for?”

“Mmm, I was thinking of getting a summer cottage,” Crowley says, equally nonchalant. “Maybe in the South Downs.” 

“Are there many cottages for sale in that area?” 

“Oh, yeah, plenty,” Crowley says, even though there hadn’t been a few moments ago. 

“That sounds lovely,” Aziraphale says. 

“Do you want to look at listings?” Crowley asks. He says it casually, like it isn’t a clear offering for something more.

“I could be tempted,” Aziraphale says primly. “It does get rather hot in London.”

“And all the tourists,” Crowley says helpfully.

“Oh, they’re simply insufferable,” Aziraphale groans. 

“Always wanting to buy your books, I bet,” Crowley says.

“Yes!” Aziraphale says, without a hint of remorse. “I once had someone ask if they thought Robert Burns’ _Poems, Chiefly in the Scottish Dialect_ would be a good _beach_ read!” Aziraphale shudders. “No, I think getting away in the summer would be very nice. Why don’t you bring up some listings on that device of yours while I finish my crepes?” 

“I think I could manage that,” Crowley says. 

As Crowley settles back against the headboard of the bed and taps furiously on his phone, the unspoken weight of their conversation hangs lightly between them. They might be moving in together. Not permanently of course, just a summer cottage to share, but it’s a start. That’s all they need, really. They have their own side, and soon they’ll have their own cottage. Aziraphale thinks he could be content with that. 

And as he sits next to Crowley and looks at cottages, Aziraphale feels very content indeed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That’s the end! Thank you guys so much for coming with me on this journey, this has been the longest story I’ve ever written. I also really tried to challenge myself by making this fic only Aziraphale’s point of view, and by adding more comfort at the end than I usually do. I mean, I had two whole chapters when normally I only have a 1,000 words!
> 
> As always, a huge shout out to [Turcote](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Turcote/pseuds/Turcote), angel, cheerleader, and editor extraordinaire. She really goes above and beyond and I probably wouldn’t be as active in the GO fandom without her.
> 
> Last, I hope you all are staying mentally and physically healthy. If you want to talk more about this work, or just need to chat, feel free to message me on [tumblr](https://www.charliebrown1234.tumblr.com) or drop me a comment!


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